Bullshit, thought Robin, and she typed back,
You talked about me having an ‘end game’. What ‘end game’? I don’t appreciate the remark about the car, either. I’d have thought you’d be glad I didn’t have to lay out thousands of my own money when we’re trying to buy a house together, but any chance to drag Strike into an argument, you take it.
Robin’s phone buzzed several more times while she was driving to Haringey, but she ignored the new texts. A tight knot of anxiety and fear had lodged behind her rib cage, though of what she was afraid she couldn’t have said. Being honest with herself? Being honest with Murphy? The fallout that was likely, if she expressed the slightest reservation about moving in together? Why had she let herself get pulled along into this situation? Hadn’t she learned anything about listening to her own doubts, from the calamity that had been her short-lived marriage?
But this isn’t the same, she argued against herself. He’s not Matthew.
Carnival Street comprised a terrace of dilapidated houses on one side and a scrapyard running the length of the other. Robin arrived to see Strike’s BMW parked just a few spaces ahead of her. Assuming he’d leave now he’d seen her arrive, Robin parked, took out her mobile and saw a text from her mother.
Martin and Carmen back together xxx
Great, Robin texted back, before turning to Murphy’s latest messages.
I don’t take every chance to drag Strike into arguments, because I know what happens when I mention him. You go off on one.
The next text read:
I wanted us to get a place we could live in long-term, not somewhere that starts feeling cramped within months. I get the impression you’d rather keep everything as temporary as possible, as if we’re students who might move on within a year. And I don’t think it’s a hanging offence to want spare bedrooms.
The last said:
Just because I wanted an open conversation about it the other night, you make this all about kids. I’m not pressuring you, but I’m not going to apologise for wanting them, either. All I want is two-way honesty.
The passenger door opened. Robin jumped, her hand moving instinctively for her bag and the pepper spray before she registered that it was Strike climbing into the car.
‘Got a few things to tell you.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, putting her mobile down and trying to focus.
‘Plug’s mate in Ipswich who got done for animal cruelty headed for the compound an hour ago, with a dog in the back of his van that, and I quote Barclay verbatim, “looks like a fucking tiger”. Apparently a lot of other blokes have rolled up since, all in vans, and on an unrelated subject – shit.’
Plug and a friend had just emerged from the house, dragging a gigantic dog that looked to Robin the kind of creature that might guard the gates of helclass="underline" a muzzled, snarling, jet black, heavily muscled cross between a Rottweiler and a giant Bulldog. It took the combined efforts of both men to force it into the back of Plug’s van.
‘Don’t you want to—?’ Robin began, as she turned on the engine.
‘No,’ said Strike, pulling on his seatbelt, ‘I’m coming.’
78
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.
‘Fucking typical it kicks off the night Barclay’s on them,’ said Strike, pulling his phone out of his pocket. ‘He needs to clear out. The blokes who dragged him off that roof are probably there.’
He called Barclay, informed him that he and Robin were on their way, and that he should leave before he was spotted.
‘Strange night to have a dog fight, Valentine’s Day,’ commented Robin, once Strike had hung up.
‘I don’t think we’re dealing with born romantics here.’
‘At least he hasn’t brought his son along,’ said Robin. ‘God, I feel sorry for that boy.’
‘Yeah, I can’t imagine it’s much fun having Plug as a father… did you read my email about the bloke in sunglasses who went looking for Todd after he moved out?’ asked Strike.
‘Yes, I’ve read all your emails,’ said Robin, a little more snappily than she’d meant to.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ said Robin quickly. The last thing she wanted right now was a discussion about her mood. ‘You were going to say something else before he came out of the house. “On an unrelated subject…”’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I think I’ve identified Danny de Lion.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Nope. Still don’t know whether he’s dead or alive, but there’s a record of him on Sark, which fits everything you got out of Fay: no cars, only tractors or horse-drawn carts, small island. If I’ve got the right bloke, his real surname’s de Leon with an ‘e’, not an ‘i’. He’s the right age and there are a couple of old photos floating around online that look like him, before he got into peroxide and fake tan, and he’s still got a mother and brother living on Sark. D’you know what the Sark flag looks like?’
‘No,’ said Robin.
‘Cross of St George with two lions passant in the upper left quadrant.’
‘Oh God,’ said Robin, unable to help herself. The agency proving Malcolm Truman had conspired to hush up the facts around William Wright’s killing certainly wasn’t going to help the strain on her relationship with Murphy, although admittedly she was currently so angry with him this was troubling her slightly less than it would before he’d called about the gazumping.
‘I can’t find a landline number for de Leon’s mother or brother,’ Strike continued, ‘but Sark’s so small, I’m considering going out there to bang on their front doors. I won’t bill Decima,’ he added, before Robin could protest. ‘I’ve got the cash from Ted and Joan’s house, I’ll pay out of my own pocket.’
‘You think de Leon was Wright, don’t you?’ said Robin.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it yet,’ said Strike, ‘but he’s the only one I can find a coherent narrative for: he was a blackmailer and got polished off in the vault because it gave Branfoot maximum control over the investigation. However, we’re a long way off proving that, which is why I want to go to Sark. If de Leon’s family have had contact with him since June the seventeenth last year, we can rule him out. If they haven’t, I’ll go to Fyola’s boyfriend and try and scare him into telling me where Branfoot’s doing his secret filming. Finding out the address of the flat where he keeps his camera and two-way mirror will scare off his goons, if anything does.’
Robin’s mobile rang and connected at once to Bluetooth, revealing Murphy’s name.
‘Ignore that,’ she said, as the phone continued to ring. ‘So you’re inclined to rule out Semple and Powell?’
‘Not yet,’ said Strike, who was far more interested in the fact that Robin was ignoring Murphy’s call on Valentine’s Day than he was in Niall Semple or Tyler Powell. ‘Must admit, since I met Hardy I’ve been rethinking Semple a bit.’
‘In what way?’
‘It was just… seeing Freemasons’ Hall and listening to Hardy. I maybe… projected too much of my own stuff on to Semple.’
Murphy rang off. The ensuing silence seemed particularly loud.