Flick gave a derisive snort, but Jimmy seemed caught off guard.
“Yeah, all right. Yeah, I will.”
“D’you know which bus would get me back to Denmark Street quickest?” Strike asked them. He could not face another long walk to the Tube. Buses were rolling past the pub with inviting frequency. Jimmy, who seemed to know the area well, directed Strike to the appropriate stop.
“Thanks very much.” As he put his wallet back inside his jacket, Strike said casually, “Billy told me you were there when the child was strangled, Jimmy.”
Flick’s rapid turn of the head towards Jimmy was the giveaway. The latter was better prepared. His nostrils flared, but otherwise he did a creditable job of pretending not to be alarmed.
“Yeah, he’s got the whole sick scene worked out in his poor fucked head,” he said. “Some days he thinks our dead mum might’ve been there, too. Pope next, I expect.”
“Sad,” said Strike. “Hope you manage to track him down.”
He raised a hand in farewell and left them standing on the forecourt. Hungry in spite of the chips, his stump now throbbing, he was limping by the time he reached the bus stop.
After a fifteen-minute wait, the bus arrived. Two drunk youths a few seats in front of Strike got into a long, repetitive argument about the merits of West Ham’s new signing, Jussi Jääskeläinen, whose name neither of them could pronounce. Strike stared unseeingly out of the grimy window, leg sore, desperate for his bed, but unable to relax.
Irksome though it was to admit it, the trip to Charlemont Road had not rid him of the tiny niggling doubt about Billy’s story. The memory of Flick’s sudden, frightened peek at Jimmy, and above all her blurted exclamation “Chizzle’s sent him!” had turned that niggling doubt into a significant and possibly permanent impediment to the detective’s peace of mind.
7
Do you think you will remain here? Permanently, I mean?
Robin would have been happy to spend the weekend relaxing after her long week unpacking and putting together furniture, but Matthew was looking forward to the house-warming party, to which he had invited a large number of colleagues. His pride was piqued by the interesting, romantic history of the street, which had been built for shipwrights and sea captains back when Deptford had been a shipbuilding center. Matthew might not yet have arrived in the postcode of his dreams, but a short cobbled street full of pretty old houses was, as he had wanted, a “step up,” even if he and Robin were only renting the neat brick box with its sash windows and the moldings of cherubs over the front door.
Matthew had objected when Robin first suggested renting again, but she had overridden him, saying that she could not stand another year in Hastings Road while further purchases of overpriced houses fell through. Between the legacy and Matthew’s new job, they were just able to make rent on the smart little three-bedroomed house, leaving the money they had received from the sale of their Hastings Road flat untouched in the bank.
Their landlord, a publisher who was off to New York to work at head office, had been delighted with his new tenants. A gay man in his forties, he admired Matthew’s clean-cut looks and made a point of handing over the keys personally on their moving day.
“I agree with Jane Austen on the ideal tenant,” he told Matthew, standing in the cobbled street. “‘A married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for.’ A house is never well cared for without a lady! Or do you two share the hoovering?”
“Of course,” Matthew had said, smiling. Robin, who was carrying a box of plants over the threshold behind the two men, had bitten back a caustic retort.
She had a suspicion that Matthew was not disclosing to friends and workmates that they were tenants rather than owners. She deplored her own increasing tendency to watch Matthew for shabby or duplicitous behavior, even in small matters, and imposed private penances on herself for thinking the worst of him all the time. It was in this spirit of self-castigation that she had agreed to the party, bought alcohol and plastic tumblers, made food and set everything up in the kitchen. Matthew had rearranged the furniture and, over several evenings, organized a playlist now blaring out of his iPod in its dock. The first few bars of “Cutt Off” by Kasabian started as Robin hurried upstairs to change.
Robin’s hair was in foam rollers, because she had decided to wear it as she had on their wedding day. Running out of time before guests were due, she pulled out the rollers one-handed as she yanked open the wardrobe door. She had a new dress, a form-fitting pale gray affair, but she was afraid that it drained her of color. She hesitated, then took out the emerald-green Roberto Cavalli that she had never worn in public. It was the most expensive item of clothing she owned, and the most beautifuclass="underline" the “leaving” present that Strike had bought her after she had gone to him as a temp and helped him catch their first killer. The expression on Matthew’s face when she had excitedly shown him the gift had prevented her ever wearing it.
For some reason her mind drifted to Strike’s girlfriend, Lorelei, as she held the dress up against herself. Lorelei, who always wore jewel-bright colors, affected the style of a 1940s pin-up. As tall as Robin, she had glossy brunette hair that she wore over one eye like Veronica Lake. Robin knew that Lorelei was thirty-three, and that she co-owned and ran a vintage and theatrical clothing store on Chalk Farm Road. Strike had let slip this information one day and Robin, making a mental note of the name, had gone home and looked it up online. The shop appeared to be glamorous and successful.
“It’s a quarter to,” said Matthew, hurrying into the bedroom, stripping off his T-shirt as he came. “I might shower quickly.”
He caught sight of her, holding the green dress against herself.
“I thought you were wearing the gray one?”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Bare-chested, tanned and handsome, Matthew’s features were so symmetrical that his reflection was almost identical to his real appearance.
“I think it makes me look pale,” said Robin.
“I prefer the gray one,” he said. “I like you pale.”
She forced a smile.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll wear the gray.”
Once changed, she ran fingers through her curls to loosen them, pulled on a pair of strappy silver sandals and hurried back downstairs. She had barely reached the hall when the doorbell rang.
If she had been asked to guess who would arrive first, she would have said Sarah Shadlock and Tom Turvey, who had recently got engaged. It would be like Sarah to try and catch Robin on the hop, to make sure she had an opportunity to nose around the house before anybody else, and to stake out a spot where she could look over all the arrivals. Sure enough, when Robin opened up, there stood Sarah in shocking pink, a big bunch of flowers in her arms, Tom carrying beer and wine.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous, Robin,” crooned Sarah, the moment she got over the doorstep, staring around the hall. She hugged Robin absentmindedly, her eyes on the stairs as Matthew descended, doing up his shirt. “Lovely. These are for you.”
Robin found herself encumbered by an armful of stargazer lilies.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll just go and put them in water.”
They didn’t have a vase big enough for the flowers, but Robin could hardly leave them in the sink. She could hear Sarah’s laugh from the kitchen, even over Coldplay and Rihanna, who were now belting out “Princess of China” from Matthew’s iPod. Robin dragged a bucket out of the cupboard and began to fill it, splattering herself with water in the process.