The Ink Black Heart, page 57
Paperwhite: how?
Morehouse: we got interested in the name ‘Vilepechora’
Morehouse: it’s an anagram
Morehouse: we worked it out then we googled the name we got
Morehouse: and found place of work, the lot. He looked kind of an arsehole posing with his car. Anomie liked it though. He liked knowing a guy likt that was in our game
Morehouse: I always thought it was fkn weird a guy like that was in here.
>
Paperwhite: how could you know that guy you googled was really Vilepechora? What if there was more than one person with that name?
Morehouse: I didn’t know for sure until I saw the footage of the guy falling in front of the train
Paperwhite: I’m googling the news footage now
>
>
>
Paperwhite: It’s really grainy, are you sure that’s him?
Morehouse: we’ll know when they give out a name won’t we
Paperwhite: what’s his real name?
Morehouse: the less you know the better. And same goes for knowing who Anomie is, before you ask
Morehouse: I’m going to leave the game tonight. I want out and you should get out too. Then I need to think out what’s best. The police might think I’m fkn crazy but I think I need to talk to them
Paperwhite: you can’t leave
Paperwhite: if all this is true
Paperwhite: and Anomie thinks you walked out because you’re suspicious, you’llbe next. He knows everything about you. he knows where you live
Morehouse: I don’t care
Paperwhite: well, do you care about ME at all?
Morehouse: of course i do, why are you saying that?
Paperwhite: because Anomie knows who I am too
Morehouse: what? how?
Paperwhite: I did a stupid thing
Morehouse: you mean sending him that picture?
Paperwhite: that was the second stupid thing
Paperwhite: the first stupid thing was, my real name was in my sign up email
Morehouse: I fkn knew it
Morehouse: I fkn knew he knew who you were
Morehouse: shit
>
Paperwhite: ok, let’s look at this sensibly
Paperwhite: think aobut what you’re saying for a moment
Paperwhite: this person you’ve known for ages, who loves the Ink Black Heart
Paperwhite: you genuinely think he could have stabbed Ledwell and Blay?
Paperwhite: you seriously think he could have pushed somebody in front of a train?
>
Morehouse: this is the conversation I keep having inside my head
Morehouse: and mostly I’ve still been answering ‘no’ but it’s been getting harder and when I saw the news and then saw Vilepechora and LordDrek had been banned I thought ‘fuck, it’s him. He’s done all of it.’
>
Paperwhite: You can’t leave the game in any way that makes him think you might be going to the police.
Morehouse: Yeah, you’re right. If I leave, he’ll definitely suspect that.
Paperwhite: You need to act really, really happy that he’s got rid of Vilepechora and LordDrek and keep him sweet while we figure out what to do.
Morehouse: And what happens when Vilepechora’s real name’s released and he knows I know who it is?
>
Paperwhite: pretend to think it was an accident. someone jostled him on the platform
Paperwhite: or say the guy must’ve pissed someone else off
>
Paperwhite: Look, I know you think I’m a coward
Paperwhite: you wanted to tell the police about that dossier LordDrek and Vilepechora planted on us and I said not to
Paperwhite: I was scared to death
Paperwhite: but this is so much worse
Paperwhite: we’ve let all this happen and not gone to the police
>
Morehouse: here’s the joke
Morehouse: I’d phone and tip off the police anonymously but they’d think I’m pissed or fucking around because of the way I talk
Paperwhite: don’t make jokes like htat
Morehouse: I spose I could write a letter
Morehouse: but how seriously would they take it?
>
Paperwhite: I could call anonymously, if you tell me his real name
Morehouse: I’m scared to. If Anomie finds out it was a woman who blabbed he’ll know it must be you. And if he knows who you are he can find out where you live as well
>
Morehouse: this is all my fault
Paperwhite: how is it?
Morehouse: I’m the one who helped him build his fkn empire, aren’t I?
Paperwhite: Vikas, please, please don’t leave me here alone
Paperwhite: let’s wait and see whether it really was Vilepechora
Morehouse: and if it is?
Paperwhite: then we’ll work out a plan.
Paperwhite: but you’d better not fkn bottle out of meeting me face to face if we have to.
Morehouse: ok
Paperwhite: promise?
>
Morehouse: promise
59
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.
Emily Dickinson
XVI
Strike, who’d been one of a dozen people to give a statement about what had happened at Custom House station, was slightly delayed for dinner with Madeline on Saturday night. She’d booked an Ottoman restaurant called Kazan, a choice Strike approved, given that he was ready for a hearty meal after no lunch, and fond of Turkish cuisine. However, the meal was overshadowed from the start by the day’s events.
Knowing that the incident at the station was bound to be on the news, and suspecting that Robin’s name would be released at some point, he felt obliged to tell Madeline what had happened, though giving her no information about the case. She was both fascinated and alarmed by the fact that he’d been mere feet from what he believed to have been attempted murder, and returned to the subject incessantly through two courses. This didn’t help Strike’s gnawing sense of unease, not only about what he’d witnessed but about the possible consequences of Robin’s presence at the scene being advertised to the television-watching public.
When Madeline finally made a trip to the Ladies’, he took out his phone, looked up the three-pronged Y symbol he’d seen tattooed beneath the rib cage of the young man in the expensive trainers and saw, with an increase of foreboding, that it represented the rune Algiz. He then opened Twitter to look at the account of @Gizzard_Al, only to find that it no longer existed. He checked BBC News, which had already broken the story of the attempt on Red Soles’ life, though with no names attached. In the absence of any announcement to the contrary, Strike had to assume Red Soles was still alive, but the bleeding from the ear had struck him as an ominous sign, likely to indicate a brain injury.
‘Checking on Robin?’ said Madeline brightly as she sat back down opposite him.
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Trying to find out how the guy who fell’s doing.’
‘She was so brave,’ said Madeline. She was drinking only fizzy water tonight and seemed determined to be generous to his partner.
‘That’s one word for it,’ said Strike darkly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
By the time they got back to Madeline’s house, three pictures of the individual who’d shoulder-charged Algiz had been released to the news, and a uniformed Chief Superintendent had made a televised appeal for information. Given that the pictures of the assailant been taken from frozen black-and-white CCTV footage, Strike hadn’t expected them to be particularly clear, but he still paused Madeline’s TV on every picture, scrutinising each one carefully.
The first showed the moment of impact, Red Soles falling forwards, hands in his pockets, Batman’s full-head mask clearly visible, their body concealed by the crowd. The second picture showed a partial view of someone wearing a Batman mask getting onto the train. Again, their physique was impossible to judge because of the number of people who’d swarmed onto the train with them. Most of them, Strike knew, would have missed the attempt to kill Red Soles, their view blocked by the mass of people.
The third picture showed the back view of what appeared to be a bald-headed, heavily muscled man running up the stairs away from the scene. The assailant, as the Chief Superintendent explained, was believed to have got onto the train where they’d ducked out of sight among the other standing passengers and pulled off the Batman mask, beneath which they were wearing a full-head-and-neck latex mask. They’d then left the train and run up the stairs out of the station, mingling with the people now departing to find other means of getting home. This picture was the only full-length picture of the assailant, and the heavy musculature looked as though it was a padded costume. What had become of the disguised assailant after leaving the station was either unknown or being withheld from the public.
‘Jesus,’ said Madeline, ‘that poor guy. He took the full impact on his head, didn’t he? Amazing he didn’t break his neck.’
Strike’s multiple rewindings of the bit of CCTV footage of Red Soles hitting the tracks, and of Robin and Mo (which was the name of the man in the Superman costume, with whom the credit for Red Soles’ survival really lay, and to whom Strike and Robin had got talking while waiting to give full statements) jumping after him, did nothing to assuage his feeling of foreboding. Assuming Red Soles’ rune tattoo had the connotation Strike had attributed to it, he thought the odds of The Halvening failing to connect Robin Ellacott with the man who’d punched one of their members in the Ship & Shovell were slim to non-existent.
‘Well, Robin definitely deserves an award. I mean, they both do,’ said Madeline.
They went to bed and had, at least on Madeline’s part, particularly enthusiastic sex. Strike was again reminded of Charlotte, whose libido had generally been stimulated by drama and conflict, although he suspected Madeline’s added demonstrativeness lay more in a desire to obliterate the memory of the row at her launch. As she was sober, she didn’t fall asleep immediately afterwards, but continued to discuss what had happened at the station, apparently in the belief that this would please Strike by showing an interest in his working day. Finally, he told her he was exhausted, and they fell asleep.
She woke him the following morning with a mug of freshly brewed coffee then slipped back into bed and initiated sex again. While Strike couldn’t pretend he gained no pleasure from a naked woman sliding slowly down his body to take his penis in her mouth, it was only at the point of orgasm that he was temporarily freed from his sense of foreboding, and the ominous feeling settled even more heavily over him after he’d climaxed. Even as he mumbled standard words of appreciation and affection, he was wondering how soon he’d be able to leave.
It was Sunday: Madeline was evidently expecting to spend the entire day with him, which he didn’t think he could stand. While knowing perfectly well that there was nothing he could do to head off the potential threat from The Halvening, having to meet an implicit demand for reassurance that he’d entirely forgiven Madeline was forcing his stress levels higher than he thought reasonable on what was supposed to be a day off. He told himself what he craved was the quiet and peace of his attic flat, but in fact he was feeling a strong desire to contact Robin, without having any particular reason to do so. She was moving today, busy with her parents, and as Strike hadn’t drawn her attention to the tattoo on the fallen man’s torso there was a chance she didn’t yet appreciate how precarious their position might have become.
Strike emerged from Madeline’s shower an hour later to find he’d missed a call from Dev Shah. As almost anything was preferable to joining Madeline for a discussion of how they were going to spend the fine spring morning, he made an insincere show of regret, told her he’d need to ring Dev back and retreated into the bedroom to do so.
‘Hi,’ said Dev. ‘Development on Jago Ross.’
‘Go on,’ said Strike.
‘I was hanging around in the road outside their country pad, pretending to mend a puncture on my push bike.
‘Ross drove the older three girls out through the gates, then stopped. The middle girl got out of the car. She’d forgotten something. He was yelling at her. “Stupid little shit”, stuff like that. Didn’t seem to give a monkey’s that I could hear him.’
‘Did you get a recording?’
‘Started recording immediately, but the audio’s pretty indistinct. He told her she had to go back on foot to fetch whatever it was. It’s about a quarter of a mile up that drive. The kid had bruising round her eye.’
‘Think I might know something about that,’ said Strike. ‘Her big sister’s been sharing details of her weekend on social media.’
‘OK, well, while they were waiting for the middle kid to reappear, he’s yelling at the eldest. From what I could hear, she was sticking up for the middle one. I think he slapped her, but you can’t see in the recording because of the shine off the car windows.
‘Finally the middle kid reappears, dragging a bag. I pretended to get my bike moving, to get in a better position.
‘When the girl reappeared, he got out of the car, yelling at her for taking so long. He opens the boot, chucks the bag in. Then, as she’s about to get in the back seat, he kicks her in the small of the back to speed her up. Got that recorded, clear as day.’
‘Excellent,’ said Strike. ‘I mean—’
‘No, I get it,’ said Dev, who sounded pensive. ‘Total fucking bastard. If that was happening on some normal street—’
‘The oldest girl said online, “People like us don’t have social workers.” Where are you now?’
‘Driving in the direction of London, following them. He usually hands the younger two to the mother then drives the eldest back to Benenden.’
‘Where are the twins?’
‘Still at the house with the nanny.’
‘OK, well that’s bloody good work, Dev…’course, his lawyer’ll probably argue temporary lapse of judgement and get him on an anger management course to pre-empt the judge. But if we can get another incident or two like that, establish a pattern of behaviour—’
‘Yeah,’ said Shah. ‘Well, I’ll let you know if anything happens at the other end.’
‘Cheers. Speak later.’
Strike, who’d conducted this conversation in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, now pulled on his trousers, all the while thinking about Robin and The Halvening. Finally reaching a decision, he arranged his features into a suitable mixture of regret and annoyance, and left the bedroom for the sitting room, where Madeline sat waiting.
‘Problem?’ she said, seeing his expression.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘One of the subcontractors’ wives has just fallen off a bloody ladder. Broken her wrist.’
The lie had sprung easily to mind, because this had once genuinely happened to Andy’s wife.
‘Oh. Does that mean—?’
Strike’s mobile rang again. Glancing down, he saw Katya Upcott’s number.
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to take that as well. Trying to sort this out.’
He pressed answer once he was back in the bedroom again.
‘Strike.’
‘Oh, yes, hello,’ said Katya’s slightly breathless voice. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on a Sunday?’
‘Not at all,’ said Strike.
‘Well, I was in to see Josh yesterday, and his doctors think he’d be well enough to see you in a week or so, if you’d still like to interview him. They’re limiting visitors, and his father and sister often go during the week, but if you could make next Saturday—’
‘Saturday sounds great,’ said Strike. ‘Let me just grab a pen.’
He found one on Madeline’s bedside table.
‘If you like, we could meet at the hospital at two o’clock? He’s in the London Spinal Cord Injury Centre. I should be there, because – well, I should be there too. He’s still in an awful state.’
After scribbling the details of Blay’s ward and visiting times in his notebook, Strike put the pen absent-mindedly into his pocket, bade Katya goodbye and headed back to Madeline.
‘I’m really sorry. I need to sort this out. Looks like I’m going to have to take over surveillance on this bastard.’
‘Shit,’ said Madeline, looking disappointed, but Strike knew she wasn’t going to kick up a fuss, not with the memory of their Bond Street argument still fresh in their minds. ‘Poor you. Poor her, too.’
‘Poor who?’ said Strike, his thoughts still with Robin.
‘The woman who fell off the ladder.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, I s’pose. Well, she’s buggered up my Sunday, anyway.’
He maintained a decent show of regret as he picked up his coat and rucksack. Madeline wound her arms around his neck and gave him a lingering farewell kiss, and then, at last, he was free to leave.
He walked the length of her street and round the corner before lighting up a cigarette. Katya Upcott’s call had given him a pretext to ring Robin, so he pressed her number, and she answered almost immediately.
‘Hi – give me a second,’ she said, and he knew immediately from the high, tearful tone of her voice that there was something wrong, more wrong than could be accounted for by moving, stressful though that undoubtedly was. Various possibilities – that she’d realised Red Soles was almost certainly a member of the far-right terrorist group, or, worst of all, that some retaliatory action had already taken place without Strike’s knowledge – made him await her return with some trepidation, especially as he could hear an angry male voice in the background.
‘Back,’ she said, still a voice that proclaimed her on the edge of tears. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. What’s up with you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You sound like you’ve been crying.’
‘I – well—’
‘What’s happened?’ said Strike, far more forcefully than he’d intended.
‘My dad – you know they were supposed to come down last night? – well, apparently he passed out in the drive right before they were about to get in the car. Mum drove him to hospital and they said he’d had a heart episode, whatever that means, and it sounded as though it wasn’t a big deal, but she’s just called back five minutes ago to say they’re taking’ – he could tell she was fighting the urge to sob – ‘taking him into surgery – sorry – I’m sure it will be fine – shit, Strike, I’m going to have to go, I need to move the Land Rover—’
Morehouse: we got interested in the name ‘Vilepechora’
Morehouse: it’s an anagram
Morehouse: we worked it out then we googled the name we got
Morehouse: and found place of work, the lot. He looked kind of an arsehole posing with his car. Anomie liked it though. He liked knowing a guy likt that was in our game
Morehouse: I always thought it was fkn weird a guy like that was in here.
>
Paperwhite: how could you know that guy you googled was really Vilepechora? What if there was more than one person with that name?
Morehouse: I didn’t know for sure until I saw the footage of the guy falling in front of the train
Paperwhite: I’m googling the news footage now
>
>
>
Paperwhite: It’s really grainy, are you sure that’s him?
Morehouse: we’ll know when they give out a name won’t we
Paperwhite: what’s his real name?
Morehouse: the less you know the better. And same goes for knowing who Anomie is, before you ask
Morehouse: I’m going to leave the game tonight. I want out and you should get out too. Then I need to think out what’s best. The police might think I’m fkn crazy but I think I need to talk to them
Paperwhite: you can’t leave
Paperwhite: if all this is true
Paperwhite: and Anomie thinks you walked out because you’re suspicious, you’llbe next. He knows everything about you. he knows where you live
Morehouse: I don’t care
Paperwhite: well, do you care about ME at all?
Morehouse: of course i do, why are you saying that?
Paperwhite: because Anomie knows who I am too
Morehouse: what? how?
Paperwhite: I did a stupid thing
Morehouse: you mean sending him that picture?
Paperwhite: that was the second stupid thing
Paperwhite: the first stupid thing was, my real name was in my sign up email
Morehouse: I fkn knew it
Morehouse: I fkn knew he knew who you were
Morehouse: shit
>
Paperwhite: ok, let’s look at this sensibly
Paperwhite: think aobut what you’re saying for a moment
Paperwhite: this person you’ve known for ages, who loves the Ink Black Heart
Paperwhite: you genuinely think he could have stabbed Ledwell and Blay?
Paperwhite: you seriously think he could have pushed somebody in front of a train?
>
Morehouse: this is the conversation I keep having inside my head
Morehouse: and mostly I’ve still been answering ‘no’ but it’s been getting harder and when I saw the news and then saw Vilepechora and LordDrek had been banned I thought ‘fuck, it’s him. He’s done all of it.’
>
Paperwhite: You can’t leave the game in any way that makes him think you might be going to the police.
Morehouse: Yeah, you’re right. If I leave, he’ll definitely suspect that.
Paperwhite: You need to act really, really happy that he’s got rid of Vilepechora and LordDrek and keep him sweet while we figure out what to do.
Morehouse: And what happens when Vilepechora’s real name’s released and he knows I know who it is?
>
Paperwhite: pretend to think it was an accident. someone jostled him on the platform
Paperwhite: or say the guy must’ve pissed someone else off
>
Paperwhite: Look, I know you think I’m a coward
Paperwhite: you wanted to tell the police about that dossier LordDrek and Vilepechora planted on us and I said not to
Paperwhite: I was scared to death
Paperwhite: but this is so much worse
Paperwhite: we’ve let all this happen and not gone to the police
>
Morehouse: here’s the joke
Morehouse: I’d phone and tip off the police anonymously but they’d think I’m pissed or fucking around because of the way I talk
Paperwhite: don’t make jokes like htat
Morehouse: I spose I could write a letter
Morehouse: but how seriously would they take it?
>
Paperwhite: I could call anonymously, if you tell me his real name
Morehouse: I’m scared to. If Anomie finds out it was a woman who blabbed he’ll know it must be you. And if he knows who you are he can find out where you live as well
>
Morehouse: this is all my fault
Paperwhite: how is it?
Morehouse: I’m the one who helped him build his fkn empire, aren’t I?
Paperwhite: Vikas, please, please don’t leave me here alone
Paperwhite: let’s wait and see whether it really was Vilepechora
Morehouse: and if it is?
Paperwhite: then we’ll work out a plan.
Paperwhite: but you’d better not fkn bottle out of meeting me face to face if we have to.
Morehouse: ok
Paperwhite: promise?
>
Morehouse: promise
59
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.
Emily Dickinson
XVI
Strike, who’d been one of a dozen people to give a statement about what had happened at Custom House station, was slightly delayed for dinner with Madeline on Saturday night. She’d booked an Ottoman restaurant called Kazan, a choice Strike approved, given that he was ready for a hearty meal after no lunch, and fond of Turkish cuisine. However, the meal was overshadowed from the start by the day’s events.
Knowing that the incident at the station was bound to be on the news, and suspecting that Robin’s name would be released at some point, he felt obliged to tell Madeline what had happened, though giving her no information about the case. She was both fascinated and alarmed by the fact that he’d been mere feet from what he believed to have been attempted murder, and returned to the subject incessantly through two courses. This didn’t help Strike’s gnawing sense of unease, not only about what he’d witnessed but about the possible consequences of Robin’s presence at the scene being advertised to the television-watching public.
When Madeline finally made a trip to the Ladies’, he took out his phone, looked up the three-pronged Y symbol he’d seen tattooed beneath the rib cage of the young man in the expensive trainers and saw, with an increase of foreboding, that it represented the rune Algiz. He then opened Twitter to look at the account of @Gizzard_Al, only to find that it no longer existed. He checked BBC News, which had already broken the story of the attempt on Red Soles’ life, though with no names attached. In the absence of any announcement to the contrary, Strike had to assume Red Soles was still alive, but the bleeding from the ear had struck him as an ominous sign, likely to indicate a brain injury.
‘Checking on Robin?’ said Madeline brightly as she sat back down opposite him.
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Trying to find out how the guy who fell’s doing.’
‘She was so brave,’ said Madeline. She was drinking only fizzy water tonight and seemed determined to be generous to his partner.
‘That’s one word for it,’ said Strike darkly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
By the time they got back to Madeline’s house, three pictures of the individual who’d shoulder-charged Algiz had been released to the news, and a uniformed Chief Superintendent had made a televised appeal for information. Given that the pictures of the assailant been taken from frozen black-and-white CCTV footage, Strike hadn’t expected them to be particularly clear, but he still paused Madeline’s TV on every picture, scrutinising each one carefully.
The first showed the moment of impact, Red Soles falling forwards, hands in his pockets, Batman’s full-head mask clearly visible, their body concealed by the crowd. The second picture showed a partial view of someone wearing a Batman mask getting onto the train. Again, their physique was impossible to judge because of the number of people who’d swarmed onto the train with them. Most of them, Strike knew, would have missed the attempt to kill Red Soles, their view blocked by the mass of people.
The third picture showed the back view of what appeared to be a bald-headed, heavily muscled man running up the stairs away from the scene. The assailant, as the Chief Superintendent explained, was believed to have got onto the train where they’d ducked out of sight among the other standing passengers and pulled off the Batman mask, beneath which they were wearing a full-head-and-neck latex mask. They’d then left the train and run up the stairs out of the station, mingling with the people now departing to find other means of getting home. This picture was the only full-length picture of the assailant, and the heavy musculature looked as though it was a padded costume. What had become of the disguised assailant after leaving the station was either unknown or being withheld from the public.
‘Jesus,’ said Madeline, ‘that poor guy. He took the full impact on his head, didn’t he? Amazing he didn’t break his neck.’
Strike’s multiple rewindings of the bit of CCTV footage of Red Soles hitting the tracks, and of Robin and Mo (which was the name of the man in the Superman costume, with whom the credit for Red Soles’ survival really lay, and to whom Strike and Robin had got talking while waiting to give full statements) jumping after him, did nothing to assuage his feeling of foreboding. Assuming Red Soles’ rune tattoo had the connotation Strike had attributed to it, he thought the odds of The Halvening failing to connect Robin Ellacott with the man who’d punched one of their members in the Ship & Shovell were slim to non-existent.
‘Well, Robin definitely deserves an award. I mean, they both do,’ said Madeline.
They went to bed and had, at least on Madeline’s part, particularly enthusiastic sex. Strike was again reminded of Charlotte, whose libido had generally been stimulated by drama and conflict, although he suspected Madeline’s added demonstrativeness lay more in a desire to obliterate the memory of the row at her launch. As she was sober, she didn’t fall asleep immediately afterwards, but continued to discuss what had happened at the station, apparently in the belief that this would please Strike by showing an interest in his working day. Finally, he told her he was exhausted, and they fell asleep.
She woke him the following morning with a mug of freshly brewed coffee then slipped back into bed and initiated sex again. While Strike couldn’t pretend he gained no pleasure from a naked woman sliding slowly down his body to take his penis in her mouth, it was only at the point of orgasm that he was temporarily freed from his sense of foreboding, and the ominous feeling settled even more heavily over him after he’d climaxed. Even as he mumbled standard words of appreciation and affection, he was wondering how soon he’d be able to leave.
It was Sunday: Madeline was evidently expecting to spend the entire day with him, which he didn’t think he could stand. While knowing perfectly well that there was nothing he could do to head off the potential threat from The Halvening, having to meet an implicit demand for reassurance that he’d entirely forgiven Madeline was forcing his stress levels higher than he thought reasonable on what was supposed to be a day off. He told himself what he craved was the quiet and peace of his attic flat, but in fact he was feeling a strong desire to contact Robin, without having any particular reason to do so. She was moving today, busy with her parents, and as Strike hadn’t drawn her attention to the tattoo on the fallen man’s torso there was a chance she didn’t yet appreciate how precarious their position might have become.
Strike emerged from Madeline’s shower an hour later to find he’d missed a call from Dev Shah. As almost anything was preferable to joining Madeline for a discussion of how they were going to spend the fine spring morning, he made an insincere show of regret, told her he’d need to ring Dev back and retreated into the bedroom to do so.
‘Hi,’ said Dev. ‘Development on Jago Ross.’
‘Go on,’ said Strike.
‘I was hanging around in the road outside their country pad, pretending to mend a puncture on my push bike.
‘Ross drove the older three girls out through the gates, then stopped. The middle girl got out of the car. She’d forgotten something. He was yelling at her. “Stupid little shit”, stuff like that. Didn’t seem to give a monkey’s that I could hear him.’
‘Did you get a recording?’
‘Started recording immediately, but the audio’s pretty indistinct. He told her she had to go back on foot to fetch whatever it was. It’s about a quarter of a mile up that drive. The kid had bruising round her eye.’
‘Think I might know something about that,’ said Strike. ‘Her big sister’s been sharing details of her weekend on social media.’
‘OK, well, while they were waiting for the middle kid to reappear, he’s yelling at the eldest. From what I could hear, she was sticking up for the middle one. I think he slapped her, but you can’t see in the recording because of the shine off the car windows.
‘Finally the middle kid reappears, dragging a bag. I pretended to get my bike moving, to get in a better position.
‘When the girl reappeared, he got out of the car, yelling at her for taking so long. He opens the boot, chucks the bag in. Then, as she’s about to get in the back seat, he kicks her in the small of the back to speed her up. Got that recorded, clear as day.’
‘Excellent,’ said Strike. ‘I mean—’
‘No, I get it,’ said Dev, who sounded pensive. ‘Total fucking bastard. If that was happening on some normal street—’
‘The oldest girl said online, “People like us don’t have social workers.” Where are you now?’
‘Driving in the direction of London, following them. He usually hands the younger two to the mother then drives the eldest back to Benenden.’
‘Where are the twins?’
‘Still at the house with the nanny.’
‘OK, well that’s bloody good work, Dev…’course, his lawyer’ll probably argue temporary lapse of judgement and get him on an anger management course to pre-empt the judge. But if we can get another incident or two like that, establish a pattern of behaviour—’
‘Yeah,’ said Shah. ‘Well, I’ll let you know if anything happens at the other end.’
‘Cheers. Speak later.’
Strike, who’d conducted this conversation in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, now pulled on his trousers, all the while thinking about Robin and The Halvening. Finally reaching a decision, he arranged his features into a suitable mixture of regret and annoyance, and left the bedroom for the sitting room, where Madeline sat waiting.
‘Problem?’ she said, seeing his expression.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘One of the subcontractors’ wives has just fallen off a bloody ladder. Broken her wrist.’
The lie had sprung easily to mind, because this had once genuinely happened to Andy’s wife.
‘Oh. Does that mean—?’
Strike’s mobile rang again. Glancing down, he saw Katya Upcott’s number.
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to take that as well. Trying to sort this out.’
He pressed answer once he was back in the bedroom again.
‘Strike.’
‘Oh, yes, hello,’ said Katya’s slightly breathless voice. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on a Sunday?’
‘Not at all,’ said Strike.
‘Well, I was in to see Josh yesterday, and his doctors think he’d be well enough to see you in a week or so, if you’d still like to interview him. They’re limiting visitors, and his father and sister often go during the week, but if you could make next Saturday—’
‘Saturday sounds great,’ said Strike. ‘Let me just grab a pen.’
He found one on Madeline’s bedside table.
‘If you like, we could meet at the hospital at two o’clock? He’s in the London Spinal Cord Injury Centre. I should be there, because – well, I should be there too. He’s still in an awful state.’
After scribbling the details of Blay’s ward and visiting times in his notebook, Strike put the pen absent-mindedly into his pocket, bade Katya goodbye and headed back to Madeline.
‘I’m really sorry. I need to sort this out. Looks like I’m going to have to take over surveillance on this bastard.’
‘Shit,’ said Madeline, looking disappointed, but Strike knew she wasn’t going to kick up a fuss, not with the memory of their Bond Street argument still fresh in their minds. ‘Poor you. Poor her, too.’
‘Poor who?’ said Strike, his thoughts still with Robin.
‘The woman who fell off the ladder.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, I s’pose. Well, she’s buggered up my Sunday, anyway.’
He maintained a decent show of regret as he picked up his coat and rucksack. Madeline wound her arms around his neck and gave him a lingering farewell kiss, and then, at last, he was free to leave.
He walked the length of her street and round the corner before lighting up a cigarette. Katya Upcott’s call had given him a pretext to ring Robin, so he pressed her number, and she answered almost immediately.
‘Hi – give me a second,’ she said, and he knew immediately from the high, tearful tone of her voice that there was something wrong, more wrong than could be accounted for by moving, stressful though that undoubtedly was. Various possibilities – that she’d realised Red Soles was almost certainly a member of the far-right terrorist group, or, worst of all, that some retaliatory action had already taken place without Strike’s knowledge – made him await her return with some trepidation, especially as he could hear an angry male voice in the background.
‘Back,’ she said, still a voice that proclaimed her on the edge of tears. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. What’s up with you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You sound like you’ve been crying.’
‘I – well—’
‘What’s happened?’ said Strike, far more forcefully than he’d intended.
‘My dad – you know they were supposed to come down last night? – well, apparently he passed out in the drive right before they were about to get in the car. Mum drove him to hospital and they said he’d had a heart episode, whatever that means, and it sounded as though it wasn’t a big deal, but she’s just called back five minutes ago to say they’re taking’ – he could tell she was fighting the urge to sob – ‘taking him into surgery – sorry – I’m sure it will be fine – shit, Strike, I’m going to have to go, I need to move the Land Rover—’
