Speakers over his head were playing ‘Itchycoo Park’.
The waiter handed him a cocktail menu. Fuck it. He was a ten-minute walk from the office; he’d leave the car where it was; he deserved alcohol. Having flicked impatiently past the cocktails, all of which were themed for different cities and countries, he ordered a double Ardbeg and attempted to find a way to extend the leg bearing the prosthesis in the narrow space between table and leather sofa.
Strike’s drink arrived shortly after he’d texted Kim the new location. He took a large gulp of the smoky whisky, disinclined to order expensive bar snacks, in spite of his hunger, because he was hoping not to be there long. All around him in the dim lighting sat couples, their faces illuminated by small puddles of light cast by the lamps, so, hoping to look like someone waiting for a girlfriend, he took refuge in his phone, searching online records for Jim Todd’s mother, a task he’d been doing intermittently all day.
Nancy Jameson was proving difficult to locate, because she’d alternated between her married and maiden names. Strike had found several court judgments against her, mostly for disorderly conduct, but also for shoplifting, though the last of these dated from five years previously. Strike knew she might be dead, but persisted in looking for her, because the mundane task was keeping his mind off his other troubles. When he’d finished his first whisky, he ordered another.
By eight o’clock, with Françoise Hardy singing over the speakers, and Strike on his third double Ardbeg, his mobile rang with a call forwarded from the office. Raising it to his ear, he said,
‘Strike.’
The line was bad. For a few seconds, nobody spoke, but Strike could hear a crackling noise. Then a notably deep, male voice said,
‘This is Rupert Fleetwood.’
It was a few seconds before Strike registered what had just been said; two and a half double Ardbegs hadn’t improved his powers of concentration. Fumbling hastily for the notebook in his pocket, he said, raising his voice over Françoise Hardy:
‘It’s good to speak to you, Mr Fleetwood.’
‘You’ve been looking for me,’ said the deep voice.
‘Yes,’ said Strike.
The unexpectedness of the call, coming so soon after Robin had expressed surprise that Fleetwood hadn’t been in touch with them, had caught him off-guard.
‘Your ex-girlfriend’s very worried about you.’
There was no response.
‘Where are you, currently?’ asked Strike, who’d managed to get his notebook open and was trying to find his pen.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said the deep voice. ‘Just tell Decima I’m all right.’
‘That won’t make her very happy, I’m afraid,’ said Strike, switching his mobile phone to his left ear, so he could write. ‘She doesn’t believe you’d ever have left her. She thinks the reason you haven’t been in touch is that you’re dead.’
He waited, but there was no response.
‘At a bare minimum, I think she’d like to know why you disappeared,’ said Strike.
‘It wasn’t going to work between us.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It just wasn’t,’ said the voice. ‘It isn’t her fault.’
‘I’m going to need proof you’re genuinely Rupert Fleetwood if you want me to pass this message on,’ said Strike. ‘Tell me something only he and Decima would know.’
He waited, pen poised.
‘She called me “Bear”,’ said the deep voice.
‘And she and Rupert are the only ones who’d know that, are they? Decima never did it in anyone else’s hearing?’
‘I can think of something only Rupert and Decima knew, before he disappeared,’ said Strike.
‘I stole her father’s silver ship,’ said the deep voice.
‘Plenty of people know Fleetwood stole that ship. I want something only Rupert and Decima—’
The caller hung up.
Strike lowered his mobile, frowning. He wondered whether to call Robin with the news that Rupert Fleetwood, or somebody pretending to be him, had just called, but she was probably with Murphy.
While the whisky wasn’t precisely cheering him, it was at least having a numbing effect, which was better than nothing, so he ordered a fourth, wondering what had become of Kim. This lateness was most unlike her; she was usually punctual to a fault.
His fresh drink had just been set down in front of him when his mobile rang again, also with a call forwarded from the office. Hoping it might be the man with the deep voice again, he answered.
‘Strike.’
‘Aye, it’s me,’ said a loud and angry whisper. ‘Wha’ for are ye waitin’? Ah need tae meet ye!’
After a moment’s incomprehension Strike said,
‘Are you the person who’s been calling me about a bridge?’
‘Dunnae talk aboot tha’!’ she said furiously. ‘Ah need ye tae come!’
‘Where are you?’ said Strike, trying to tug his notebook out of his pocket again.
‘Jus’ come tae the Golden Fleece, f’ fuck’s sake!’
‘Where is that?’
‘Ye know where, it’s the only place Ah’m safe, kinda, but Ah’ve gottae be careful, Ah think they’re watchin’ me—’
‘Are you Rena Liddell?’
‘DUNNAE SAY MAH FUCKIN’ NAME!’ she howled.
He heard the clunk of a call box receiver being slammed down.
Shit.
Strike was now exceptionally hungry in addition to being slightly drunk, so he caved in and ordered chips and calamari rings from the bar snack menu. Barely had the waiter departed than Kim entered the bar at last.
‘I’m so sorry, I’ve never been late for a job,’ she mumbled.
As she sat down beside him, Strike saw by the limited illumination of the booth that he wasn’t the only person with facial injuries. Someone had very obviously gouged Kim’s face, leaving deep, bloody scratches. Her right eye was puffy and Strike could see bruises forming around it.
‘What happened to you?’
‘I – it’s – Ray – you know, my ex?’
Rendered slower in comprehension than he usually was, because of all the Ardbeg he’d consumed, Strike said,
‘The jobless bloke, yeah – he did that?’
‘No, it was – I told you he was with someone when we got together, didn’t I? Well, it was her.’
‘Christ,’ said Strike.
‘I opened my flat door and she was standing there, waiting,’ said Kim. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, can I get a proper drink, I really—’
In no position to refuse, given how much Ardbeg he’d already consumed, Strike raised a hand to summon the waiter and, as Kim was now sitting with her face in her hands and muttered ‘anything’, Strike ordered her an Ardbeg, too.
When her drink arrived, Kim took a large swallow then coughed and said,
‘God, that’s disgusting, what is it?’
‘Whisky.’
‘Oh… well, I s’pose it’ll do the job.’