‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘Slag me off?’
‘A bit.’
‘What did he say? I knocked Charlotte about? Screwed around? It’s my fault she topped herself?’
‘Something along those lines, but—’
‘I never laid a finger on her in anger, except to stop her hurting herself,’ said Strike.
How many more blows to the gut was he supposed to take? How much more self-respect had to be stripped from him, in front of the person whose good opinion mattered more to him than any other’s?
‘OK,’ said Robin, ‘well, that’s not what I—’
‘Did he have anything useful to say about Fleetwood, or was it wall-to-wall Charlotte as saint and me as bastard?’
‘He didn’t say anything very useful about Fleetwood, no,’ said Robin, keeping her tone measured. ‘But he was definitely twitchy about us going near his sister Cosima, and generally evasive on the subject of why Rupert gatecrashed Legard’s party. But,’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘that isn’t what I was going to tell you.
‘I was followed when I left the restaurant where I interviewed Longcaster.’ She didn’t want to admit the next bit, but honesty compelled her to do so. ‘I think he tailed me from my flat yesterday morning and I didn’t realise. He was wearing a – well, he was wearing a gorilla mask by the time he caught up with me—’
‘What?’
‘—but I’d noticed him before, on the industrial estate where I was waiting for Longcaster; he was wearing the same green jacket. He didn’t make his move until I was completely alone and there was no one else—’
‘What move?’ said Strike.
‘He pulled out a knife,’ said Robin. ‘And—’
‘He WHAT?’ said Strike, so loudly a woman passing with a Bichon Frisé looked round.
‘I’m trying to tell you “what”,’ said Robin, in a low voice. ‘He pulled out this – well, it was a masonic dagger. I know, because he threw it at me. I’ve got it at home. It was a warning, not an attack,’ she said, because Strike was looking dangerous. ‘He said, “stop, and you won’t get hurt”. He was trying to scare me,’ she said, omitting to mention that her menacer had achieved this objective, ‘there was never any question of him actually—’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me after this happened?’
‘What could you have done?’ said Robin coolly. ‘You were in Scotland.’
‘I told you, and you agreed, if you went anywhere alone, you were to tell me. We agreed, after Shanker, after that bloke in Harrods, and with all these fucking phone calls, the last one specifically targeting you—’
‘“Bitch” might have meant Kim or Midge, and I can’t ring you literally every time I’m somewhere alone,’ said Robin, her tone no longer measured. ‘It was a well-lit residential street, and he didn’t actually hurt—’
‘You realise there was a fucking “G” painted on the street door on New Year’s Eve?’
‘What? No, I didn’t! Why didn’t you tell—?’
‘And this bloke said “stop”?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me a “G” was painted on the door?’
‘Somebody’s clearly decided you’re the weak link—’
The moment the words had left his mouth he wished them unspoken. Robin had blanched in anger. Kim’s jibes about her lack of police training and her own awareness that she should have spotted her tail the previous day were doing battle with her desire to point out Strike’s sheer audacity in suggesting she was the person letting the agency down, when his shenanigans with women were drawing down so much negative press—
‘I didn’t mean “weak link” in terms of – I mean,’ Strike blustered, ‘you’re a woman, aren’t you, and Branfoot knows he’s got something his goons can scare you with—’
‘We haven’t got a shred of evidence Branfoot’s got anything to do with those men,’ said Robin furiously.
‘Who else connected to this case has got a bunch of thugs to do his bidding? “Or he might send someone,” Wright said. You’re the one who spotted Branfoot’s pal from Ramsay Silver in the paper. Branfoot’s at the same fucking lodge as the senior investigating officer—’
‘I know that, I’m capable of retaining information you told me two minutes ago! But as I’m not the one who’s given Branfoot an excuse to slag us off in the tabloids—’
Stung on the raw, Strike now lost his cool himself.
‘Sure it’s bad press worrying you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t want us investigating a masonic lodge full of Met officers?’
‘This has got nothing to do with Ryan!’ said Robin, angrily and untruthfully. ‘I know the lodge thing’s a bit fishy, but we haven’t got—’
‘“A bit fishy”? It stinks like a fucking prawn trawler! Why did Branfoot move lodges? Why did he decide to go where the police were?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Don’t give me that, we know he’s dodgy as fuck. Jimmy Savile was cosying up to his local police force for years, having them over every Friday for drinks.’
‘You seriously think Truman knew Branfoot was behind the murder and agreed to cover it up?’ said Robin scornfully.
‘It doesn’t have to be that crude! I’m not claiming Truman knows Branfoot put out the hit—’
‘Why would Branfoot have someone killed in a masonic silver shop?’
‘Because he was mates with a bunch of masonic policemen who literally meet next door, he knew they’d be predisposed to hushing anything up that looked masonic, and he’d be able to exert maximum influence over the investigation! Branfoot either lucked out, and his mate Truman was put in charge, or Truman pulled his own masonic strings to make sure he got the job!’
‘And why would Branfoot have ordered a sash be put on the body, and a masonic hallmark carved into it?’
‘What if it was meant to be overkill, to look like somebody trying to frame the masons, and Truman fell right into the trap, and rushed to deny any connection, egged on by Branfoot?’
‘So Truman risked his entire career to keep Branfoot happy?’
‘Listen to what I’m saying – it doesn’t have to have been done for Branfoot specifically! Truman might’ve risked his career because masonry is his big thing, the centre of his emotional and social life! It means that, to some men! But if you’re going to look me in the eye and tell me there aren’t men who’re flattered by association with the aristocracy, and wouldn’t get an ego thrill from chumming around with Lord Oliver Branfoot off the telly—’
‘I’m not saying that, but—’
‘—then you’ll concede that Truman might’ve been easily influenced by Branfoot pushing the idea that someone was trying to frame the masons, in which case, the Knowles thing would’ve been manna from heaven to Truman. He paid a professional price for getting it wrong, but he’s still trotting along to Freemasons’ Hall every month, which should tell you something about his priorities in life!’
‘We’ve pieced together a story about Branfoot and we haven’t got a shred of proof it’s true,’ said Robin hotly. ‘The cipher note and Branfoot’s friend shopping in Ramsay Silver and Branfoot bashing private detectives and Dick de Lion – they could all be completely unconnected!’
‘This, from the person who’s been urging me to make enquiries about a Belgian woman whose name vaguely resembles Rita Linda,’ said Strike, and instantly regretted it, as Robin’s face flooded with colour.