‘I didn’t want to tell you—’
Strike felt almost drunk with the release of tension, and his mouth appeared to be acting independently of his brain. He’d only known this sensation a couple of times before in his entire life: arriving through flooded countryside at the old house in St Mawes, in time to reach his aunt’s deathbed; finding Charlotte alive, at last, in hospital, forty-eight hours after he’d found her torn-up dress.
‘—until I was sure.’
‘About what?’
‘Bijou Watkins had Honbold’s baby early,’ said Strike, ‘and he thought it might be mine. I did a DNA test, she’s just forwarded me the results, and it’s nothing to do with me. Jesus fucking Christ,’ said Strike, running a hand over his face before reading out Bijou’s text. ‘“I’ve only just seen this, sorry for the delay” – fuck’s sake – but she knew all along it wasn’t mine, so I assume she wasn’t shitting herself about the results.’
He glanced sideways at Robin, whose gaze was fixed on Plug’s tail-lights.
‘I know I should’ve told you,’ said Strike. ‘I just – after all the other Culpepper shit – I wanted to know for certain what I was dealing with.’
Almost against her will, the vice-like grip of anger and anguish that had been with Robin ever since Ilsa had told her about Bijou’s baby was loosening.
‘When did you take the test?’
‘Thursday. Met her at the Savoy. Cheek swab. Handed it all back to her and if I never see her again, it’ll be too fucking soon.’
He glanced at Robin’s profile.
‘You can say it.’
‘What?’
‘I’m a stupid, reckless fucker who’d have deserved it, if it had been mine.’
‘I wasn’t going—’
‘I’ll say it, then. I’m a stupid, reckless fucker and I’d’ve deserved—’
‘Accidents happen,’ said Robin, who wanted to know how much Strike would tell her.
‘It wouldn’t have been an accident, not from her end. Ilsa told me she’s adept at waste-bin salvage. Christ,’ said Strike again, running his hand through his hair as he looked around. ‘Why isn’t there booze in here? We should keep a bottle handy.’
‘So you can celebrate every time you find out you’re not a father?’
‘There won’t be another time, I can promise you that,’ said Strike. ‘No more women who’re walking red flags. I had no excuse for not seeing trouble when it’s right in front of me, I had sixteen years’ fucking experience.’
‘So, then,’ said Robin, ‘why disregard the red flag?’
‘Because sometimes,’ said Strike, all caution gone, ‘if you can’t get what you want, you take what you can get.’
Confusion and trepidation flooded Robin. What did he mean? What, or who, did he want? Was there yet another woman she didn’t know about, for whom he yearned? Was he talking about the dead Charlotte, now forever beyond hope of reform or reunion? Or was he hinting…? But she couldn’t make herself ask. She was scared of taking a step that might put her in possession of information that would have ramifications way beyond deciding whether she and Murphy should put in a higher bid on a house.
Beside her, Strike was thinking, ask me. Ask me what I mean and I’ll bloody say it. Ask.
Neither spoke. They drove on in silence.
79
… to Haides’ realm descended he
To drag into the light the three-shaped hound
Of Hell…
Over an hour later, Plug’s white van indicated left and turned up the road that led to the compound on waste ground, north of Ipswich.
‘What’s the plan?’ said Robin, peering through the darkness ahead, Plug’s tail-lights the only things clearly visible.
‘If at all possible, gain admittance by trying to look as if we’ve got our own dangerous dog in the back,’ said Strike. ‘This is where a Land Rover comes in handy.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, ‘but – shit – I don’t think this is going to work, Strike, I think they’re taking names…’
A bearded man holding a flashlight was standing at the end of the dirt track that led to the compound. Plug wound down his window; he and the sentinel exchanged a few brief words, and the latter waved him on. Robin glanced in her rear-view mirror and saw another van creeping closer, this one blue.
‘Worth a try,’ said Strike. ‘Keep going.’
The burly man was looking past the Land Rover to the blue van. He grinned, waved, indicated casually that the Land Rover should proceed, and strolled past it, presumably to speak to a friend.
‘Good job,’ said Strike, as Robin accelerated up the track.
The sound of distant, low-pitched shouts grew louder as they approached a patch of rough ground on which many cars and vans were parked. Over to the left they could see a crowd of men in silhouette, all surrounding something unseen that was illuminated by the headlights of three parked vans.
Robin parked. Twenty yards away, Plug had got out of his van, barely discernible in the darkness. Outbuildings surrounded them, and wire pens behind which enormous barking dogs scrambled.
‘After I get out, turn the car round,’ said Strike.
‘What d’you mean, “get out” – we can film from here!’ said Robin. She didn’t like the look of the crowd, nor was she enjoying the growls, yelps and howls issuing not only from the arena, but from surrounding vehicles.
‘If I can get footage of faces, we’ve got a prosecution, but I want the car facing the road in case I need a quick getaway. Stay here and keep the doors locked.’
Before Robin could protest further, Strike had got out of the car. Robin watched him walking away towards the crowd, moving carefully over the rough ground. As far as Robin could see, she was the only woman present.
She turned the Land Rover around so that its nose was pointing back towards the road. Only then did she remember that Murphy had texted her while driving, so she took out her mobile.
This is a great fucking Valentine’s Day.
‘Whose fault’s that?’ said Robin angrily, throwing her mobile down and craning around to watch the mass of silhouetted men that Strike had now joined.
Given his height, Strike had no difficulty seeing what was going on in the centre of the baying crowd. Two enormous dogs, one grey, one brindle, both bandy-legged with blunt noses, were locked together in the dirt, rolling and snarling and already bleeding. Many of the men watching were filming. Strike took out his own mobile and switched to record.
The visibility was poor, because the headlights were angled to shine on the dogs, not the men, but he thought he recognised the shadowy face of Plug’s friend from the train. The man who’d had the ledger in Ipswich was accepting cash from a couple of latecomers. By shifting position, Strike isolated his target and zoomed in on Plug while the latter cheered and punched the air, goading the dogs on. Strike could see two knots of men in the crowd, fighting to control the pair of dogs who were due to fight next, both of them muzzled and almost too powerful to hold.
In the middle of the ring, the grey, which had a torn face, was now gripping the brindle dog by the neck. As Strike watched, life and blood started to drain from the brindle, its legs twitching ever more feebly as blood flooded from its jugular. At last, a shaven-headed man entered the ring, making a boxing referee’s ‘it’s over’ slashing motion with his arms. Half the crowd, including Plug, roared their approval, while the other half booed. The owner of the grey dog ran forwards with two other men; they prised the animal’s jaws off the corpse, succeeded, after some difficulty, in muzzling it, and pulled it out of the makeshift ring by a heavy chain lead.