‘No. I just know that’s where it all happened.’
‘So, the rich man hires adult actors to be in his private films?’
‘Yeah. He doesn’t want to use sex workers. He doesn’t trust them. He’s just making his own films, for private use. It’s all legal. He pays good money,’ said Fiona. ‘Really good. That’s why Danny kept going back.’
‘But only some of the people filmed know the man’s watching?’
‘Well, yeah,’ said Fiona huskily, looking at her neon pink nails rather than at Robin. ‘The pros all know, but not the… not the amateurs… Craig told me, there’s always someone there who didn’t know they were being filmed. One time it was a girl who works for the rich guy, she’s, like, an assistant, in his office. One of the pros chatted her up in a bar and he took her back to the flat, and she thought it belonged to him, and she was wasted and the rich guy watched this guy doing her, and filmed it. And he did the same thing to two young guys who’re part of some charity thing the rich guy runs. He got two pro boys to lure them back to the flat, and the rich guy filmed it all and watched. But the amateurs were all up for it,’ said Fiona quickly. ‘It wasn’t rape. They weren’t drugged or nothing. Nobody was underage. They were all consenting.’
But not to being watched and filmed, thought Robin. Even Fiona seemed to know what she’d just described wasn’t entirely innocent, because she added,
‘Craig told me the pros had to persuade the amateurs to take money, at the end. Like, for a taxi or whatever, but, like, more than they needed. So, you know, they were on film taking cash.’
Robin’s mobile buzzed again.
Wheaton back in car, looks like he’s heading home.
‘Does the rich man ever appear on camera himself?’ Robin asked.
‘No, never. He’s behind the mirror.’
‘So what did Danny say to the guy, that sounded like blackmail?’
‘The bloke was having a real go at him about the money, so Danny said, “I bet my indie films’d do well, if I give ’em more publicity.” And the guy went fucking apeshit. Danny was scared. He tried to pretend he wasn’t, but he was.’
‘Craig’s really never told you the man’s name?’
‘No, never. He says it’s more’n his life would be worth, telling people.’
‘Other than that he’s rich, and sometimes on TV, has he mentioned any other personal details about the man at all?’
‘Only that his wife doesn’t know about the flat.’
‘And he’s a Freemason,’ said Robin, as though she already knew beyond doubt that this was the case, and the unsuspecting Fiona nodded.
‘This is my card,’ said Robin, handing one over as she hoisted her bag back over her shoulder. ‘If you remember anything else about that man, please call me. Nobody else is going to know you’ve spoken to me, other than Strike.’
‘So… Danny was the guy in the safe?’ said Fiona tearfully, following Robin back up the hall.
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin. ‘But if you text me your number, I’ll let you know who it was, as soon as we’ve found out.’
Robin passed outside onto the top stone step and then turned to face Fiona again. Strike’s words, ‘we aren’t fucking social workers’, ran through her mind as she said,
‘You don’t have to stay with him. You could do something else.’
‘What?’ said Fiona.
‘I don’t… it doesn’t sound to me as though Craig treats you very well,’ said Robin. She was ten years older than Fiona, but felt ancient as she said it. ‘Men who read all your emails and texts – I was with a man who listened to my voicemail messages and didn’t pass them on. It ended badly. But,’ she added, ‘I know it isn’t any of my business.’
‘No,’ said Fiona, ‘it isn’t.’
Robin heard the front door slam behind her as she reached the pavement. Shortly before she reached the corner, she glanced back. Fiona was watching her from the front window; Robin expected her to raise her middle finger again, but the girl’s expression was simply blank.
70
Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are battle-fields, which have their heroes,—heroes obscure, but sometimes greater than those who become illustrious.
On Tuesday morning, Strike sat down to eat breakfast beside an attic window fogged with condensation, and saw that Robin had emailed him overnight. Ever since she’d told him she wasn’t coming to Scotland with him to interview Jade Semple she’d chosen to email when, normally, she’d have phoned. He’d also noticed that these emails were never prefaced with a salutation.
Audio file of Fyola Fay interview attached. Important points: Dick de Lion’s real name is ‘Danny’, he comes from an island with no cars and disappeared end of May.
Fyola Fay’s partner knew the rich man ‘when he was a kid’. I’ve done some research: Craig Wheaton spent his teens in a boys’ care home partly funded by Oliver Branfoot’s trust.
Also attached, possible Land Rover.
R
Strike picked up his mobile and called her.
‘Just seen your email.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Robin coolly.
‘Bloody good work. You’ve found the link between Branfoot and de Lion.’
‘An indirect link, yes,’ said Robin, unfortunately reminded of the ‘weak link’ comment Strike had made in Ironbridge. Strike was speaking as though everything was normal between them, and even though she didn’t want any conversation in which she might become angry or, worse, tearful, his matter-of-fact tone grated. She was damned if she was going to apologise for anything she’d said at the Swan Taphouse, but she was riled by the fact that Strike didn’t seem to feel he ought to make any amends.
‘Well, I’ve just found Rupert’s friend Tish Benton, or her parents, anyway,’ said Strike.
Robin suspected this was supposed to show her he hadn’t forgotten about Decima.
‘Yes, I found her too,’ said Robin coolly. ‘She’s got an Instagram page, but it’s set to private. I’ve sent her a follower request.’
‘Great, because the parents were very suspicious when I told them who I was. I’ve left contact details and asked Tish to call me but I’m not hopeful.’
‘OK, well, there’s something else I wanted to say to you,’ said Robin. ‘I want to put surveillance on Albie Simpson-White. I don’t care how we bill for it, but I’m happy to give up free time to do it, or cover for the others while they do. I don’t feel right about spending Decima’s money to investigate all these other possible Wrights, if we’re not actively trying to get resolution for her, too.’
‘All right,’ said Strike, who sounded resigned, ‘we’ll start watching Simpson-White.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robin stiffly.
‘I had no luck with Powell’s friend Wynn Jones,’ said Strike. ‘He wasn’t at the farm. Allegedly he’s had some kind of accident with a tractor. They didn’t seem keen on telling me how to contact him, but I left a card. Don’t suppose Tyler Powell’s called you back?’
‘No,’ said Robin. She was now regretting leaving her real name on Tyler’s supposed phone. If he was alive but hiding away from persecutors in his home town, he’d almost certainly rather not speak to a private detective, especially if he suspected she’d been hired by the Whiteheads.
‘And we’ve had another one of those anonymous calls,’ said Strike.