‘Mr Longcaster?’
Valentine turned.
‘My name’s Robin Ellacott. I’m a private detective and I wondered whether I could have a word with you about Rupert Fleetwood.’
Robin was very aware of four pairs of eyes fixed on her. Ciara Porter in particular – so pale she seemed illuminated in the dark – was goggling at her, and one of the other models, who had a short black pixie cut, gave a little gasp and said in an audible whisper to Ciara:
‘Wait… is this PP?’
‘I think it must be, yeah,’ drawled Valentine, exhaling smoke.
Convinced he was going to refuse to talk, Robin was taken aback when he said,
‘OK. Let’s talk about Rupert fucking Fleetwood.’
The model with the pixie cut laughed.
‘There’s a restaurant not far from here,’ said Robin, who certainly wasn’t going to interview Valentine in front of an audience. ‘We could talk there, if you like?’
‘Doubt there’s anything to “like” in Walthamstow,’ said Valentine. ‘Fine. I’ll follow you in my car.’
‘I didn’t come in a car,’ said Robin. ‘It’s a short walk. Just a couple of minutes.’
‘Then I’ll see you there,’ said Valentine. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Arte e Pasta,’ said Robin. ‘It’s just round the—’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll wait for you there, then.’
She turned and walked away. Behind her, she heard Valentine make some unintelligible comment, and a burst of laughter.
The small restaurant, which lay three minutes’ walk away, had a mural painted on the outer wall. Robin was far too cold to wait for Valentine outside, so headed indoors and secured a table for two beneath a high ceiling that was partly corrugated iron. Coloured lanterns hung from iron bars above the tables and children’s drawings were pinned up on the wall. Robin doubted it was Valentine Longcaster’s kind of place.
Twenty minutes passed with no sign of Longcaster. Robin ordered herself a mineral water and checked her email. Pat had sent a message to both Robin and Strike saying that the local paper had refused to give contact details for the Mohamed family, which made no sense to Robin until she saw the attachment about Hafsa, the nine-year-old Syrian refugee. Hafsa’s picture showed a little girl with a sweet, heart-shaped face and enormous, thick-lashed eyes. Robin was still examining this when she sensed someone looming over her and looked up to see Valentine.
While silhouetted by the neon glow of God’s Own Junkyard, Valentine could have passed for twenty-five, because he was thin and moved energetically. His thick dirty-blond hair was cropped at the sides but with a floppy, boyish fringe, and his clothes were quirky and youthful. However, when he sat down opposite Robin, she thought he looked his full forty years. There was a softness at the chin, bags beneath the bloodshot eyes, of which the pupils were so dilated his blue eyes looked almost black. There was also a cluster of small yellowish pimples at the corner of his mouth, which he’d attempted to conceal with make-up.
‘So,’ he said, shrugging off his black jacket, ‘where’s Decima?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin.
‘Uh huh,’ said Valentine sarcastically. ‘I s’pose she thinks if she stays in hiding long enough, Fleetwood’ll get worried she’s done herself a mischief and come back?’
A young waitress appeared at their table.
‘What’s safe to drink?’ drawled Valentine, looking up at the girl.
‘Oh, well, we’ve got—’
‘Peroni,’ he said.
‘I’m fine with this water,’ Robin said, before the waitress could ask.
The waitress departed to fetch Valentine’s beer. Robin took out her notebook.
‘So, could I ask when you last saw Rupert?’ she asked.
‘You could,’ said Valentine. ‘Are you going to?’
‘OK,’ said Robin. ‘When did you last—?’
‘On May the twenty-first last year, as you already know, because Sacha told Corporal Brokeby.’
Robin chose to ignore the insulting nickname for Strike.
‘And you haven’t had any contact with him since?’
‘Of course I bloody haven’t.’
‘Why “of course”?’
‘You can drop the Miss Marple thing, you’re not going to catch me out.’
‘What d’you—?’
‘Decima’s already told you I think Fleetwood’s a conniving little shit on the make, I’m sure. The family’s glad to see the back of him.’
Robin’s mobile rang. She pulled it out of her pocket, saw her mother’s number, and refused the call.
‘You argued with Rupert on the twenty-first of May, right?’ she said to Valentine. ‘What was that about?’
‘He’d gatecrashed Sacha’s party, and I don’t like freeloaders.’
‘Why did Rupert turn up there, do you know? He’d stolen that nef from your father, so it seems odd—’
‘Well, he’s thick as shit, you see,’ said Valentine. He raked his hair out of his eyes, glaring at Robin through the huge black pupils. ‘He didn’t believe my father would call the police, because of publicity, but my father doesn’t give a shit what the press say about him and he certainly wouldn’t care what they write about Fleetwood. I told him at the party my father had rung the police as soon as he realised the nef had gone, so he panicked and fucked off again. Decima ought to have paid him what the nef was worth, to make him give it back. Apparently she hasn’t learned her lesson.’
‘What lesson?’
‘That if you want to turn a gigolo into a permanent fixture, you need to keep coughing up,’ said Valentine. ‘She married another leech in her twenties, did she mention that?’
‘No,’ said Robin.
‘Well, she did, so the family’s been here before. Mullins was a better-looking Fleetwood. Shitty business ideas, trying to make everyone invest, then bolt for someone better-looking once he realised Decima wasn’t actually a cashpoint, just shaped like one.’
The waitress arrived with Valentine’s lager. As he clearly wasn’t going to thank her, Robin did it.
‘Are you ready to order?’ asked the waitress.
‘I’m not eating,’ said Valentine.
‘Spaghetti carbonara, please,’ said Robin, who felt one of them should justify taking up a table. The waitress left again, and Robin said,
‘So you think Rupert left your sister for another woman?’
‘It’s what most of her boyfriends do.’
‘Your sister Cosima was upset by what Rupert said to her, at the party, right?’
‘So?’
‘What did he say to upset her?’
‘That’s none of your fucking business.’
‘Well, it is my business,’ said Robin, ‘because I’m being paid to find out why Rupert disappeared.’
‘He hasn’t fucking disappeared, he’s in America.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Sacha told me.’ After a slight hesitation, Valentine said, ‘Fleetwood was rude to Cosima when she told him he shouldn’t have gatecrashed, all right?’
‘She approached him, did she? To tell him he should get out?’
‘No,’ said Valentine, but then, ‘possibly.’
‘Sacha told my partner that Rupert seemed to have come looking for a fight. Who did he want to fight with? Cosima? You?’
Valentine sipped his Peroni.
‘Because I don’t think it adds up,’ Robin persisted, ‘that he went there just for free drink. He was moving out of his house that weekend. That’s always stressful, and hard work. Plus, I spoke to a good friend of Rupert’s, Albie Simpson-White—’
‘Who?’
‘He used to work at your father’s club. The way he described Rupert, gatecrashing that party would be quite out of character.’