‘Funny, bumping into you here,’ said Robertson. ‘I was going to give you a call when I got back from Edinburgh.’
‘Yeah?’ said Strike, without much interest. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Ever heard of the Winston Churchill Masonic Lodge?’
‘Why d’you ask?’ said Strike, who knew perfectly well that this was DCI Malcolm Truman’s lodge.
‘You asked me whether Oliver Branfoot’s a Freemason.’
‘Yeah, and you said you didn’t know.’
Robertson shoved more nicotine gum into his mouth, then said, watching Strike closely,
‘Dodgy Freemasons are always news.’
‘I’d imagine so,’ said Strike, not yet so drunk that he was going to unintentionally hand Robertson a story that might lay both of them open to being sued.
‘Rumour is, the membership of the Winston Churchill Lodge skews heavily towards police.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I got talking to a journo mate who was covering the masons in ’99,’ said Robertson, dropping his voice still lower. ‘When the Home Affairs Committee produced their report into Freemasonry in public life, remember that?’
‘No,’ said Strike, who’d spent a good deal of 1999 in Kosovo. ‘What did it say?’
‘That there’s a lot of unjustifiable paranoia about Freemasons, but they don’t help themselves by being so secretive, and there were cases where allegations of masonic influence might be justified. The forensic scientist involved in the Birmingham Six investigation was a Freemason, as was uncovered by the Home Affairs Select Committee’s investigation into masonic influence. “As regards the forensic scientist we conclude that freemasonry could have been a factor in the close and unprofessional relationship he enjoyed with the police.”
‘Anyway,’ said Robertson, dropping his voice still lower, and still watching Strike for his reaction, ‘I was talking to this guy the other day, and I slipped Branfoot’s name into the conversation, and he said, yeah, Branfoot’s a mason, and he heard Branfoot changed lodges a couple of years ago. Apparently he used to be in one of the ones that are packed with aristos. Then, according to my source, he moved to the Winston Churchill.’
When Strike didn’t speak, Robertson said in a half-jocular growl,
‘C’mon. You’ve got something on Branfoot.’
‘He jumped on Culpepper’s anti-me bandwagon and I wanted to know why, that’s all.’
Strike had just been handed a plum bit of intelligence, but felt too anaesthetised by misery and alcohol to take much pleasure in it. The bar full of male voices and laughter, the pimply young barman in his polyester waistcoat, the smell of cheap whisky and the sight of Robertson’s vigorous chewing was suddenly even more intolerable than his cramped compartment.
‘Need some sleep,’ he informed the journalist as he stood up.
‘You’ll keep me posted,’ said Robertson, ‘right?’
‘Sure,’ said Strike.
He grabbed his whisky bottle by the neck and set back off along the train, swaying with its motion.
Back on his lower bunk, he considered texting Robin to tell her about Branfoot attending the same lodge as Malcolm Truman, but what was the fucking point? She’d be enjoying a post-coital laugh with her CID boyfriend right now. The news could keep until Ironbridge. However, one vindictive thought brought a kind of cold comfort.
He had a bloody good reason, now, for digging deeper into Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Truman, who so coincidentally happened to share a masonic lodge with Lord Oliver Branfoot, and anyone who didn’t like Strike going after a member of the Met – Ryan Fucking Murphy, to take just one example – could stick their objections right up their arse.
58
Some girl, who here from castle-bower,
With furtive step and cheek of flame,
’Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower
By moonlight came
To meet her pirate-lover’s ship…
Robin, who’d spent much of the weekend pretending to be excited about the house she and Murphy were going to view on Thursday evening, was glad to have an excuse to get up before her boyfriend on Monday. She wanted to be waiting outside Juniper Hill High School in Finsbury Park before the first students arrived, so as to maximise her chances of waylaying Tia Thompson, friend of the missing Sapphire Neagle.
Standing on the opposite pavement to the entrance of the large, ugly grey comprehensive, watching the first pupils enter the school in their red sweatshirts, Robin was attempting, but failing, to block out thoughts of Strike.
He hadn’t called over the weekend – not that she’d ordinarily have expected him to – but you’d have thought he’d have rung her to ask why her email was so unfriendly, and why she was dropping out of the Scotland part of the trip, and to tell her there’d be plenty of other opportunities to speak to Tia Thompson and Valentine Longcaster, wouldn’t you? But no. So much for friendship…
Maybe I should leave, Robin thought. Maybe I should just find another job.
But this was a form of mental blood-letting: she didn’t really have the slightest intention of resigning. Walk out on everything she’d helped build? Walk away from nearly seven years of sacrifice, and risk, and hard, relentless work? Throw away the job she loved, just because Cormoran Strike was a lying, manipulative bastard? Because he was manipulative, she saw that now: his offer to buy her a new Land Rover, and his Christmas gift, and the repeated mentions of Charlotte’s suicide note, all designed to keep her bound to him and the business, while he was off impregnating Bijou bloody Watkins, and, for all Robin knew, sleeping with a few more women on the side… well, good luck, Bijou, you picked a hell of a father for your baby…
The red sweatshirt-ed throng was growing and Robin scanned the faces of every black girl she could see. Most students were arriving in groups, but when at last Robin spotted and identified Tia, the girl was walking along alone, reading something off her phone while vaping. So intent was she on her screen that as she made to cross the road, twenty yards short of where Robin was standing, the latter shouted out:
‘Tia, be careful!’
Tia started and jumped backwards as a bus trundled past.
‘The hell do you know my name?’ the girl demanded, as Robin hurried towards her.
‘I was hoping to talk to you,’ said Robin, unable to stop herself adding, ‘you shouldn’t be looking at Snapchat when you’re crossing roads.’
‘For your information,’ said Tia, showing Robin her screen, ‘I’m reading a fucking book.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin. ‘Well, even so… I was hoping to talk to you about Sapphire Neagle.’
‘Why?’
‘My name’s Robin Ellacott. I’m a private detective. Sapphire’s missing and I’m trying to find out what happened to her.’
Robin handed Tia her card. The girl scrutinised it, frowning.
‘I’d just like to ask a couple of questions,’ said Robin. ‘If you don’t know the answers, fine.’
Tia looked understandably wary.
‘You can look me up online,’ said Robin. ‘I’m a genuine private detective, and I’m worried about Sapphire. Nothing you say’s going to end up in court, or anything like that. I’m just trying to find her.’
‘All right,’ said Tia slowly, ‘but hurry up. I don’t wanna miss English.’