‘Yeah, and I’ve made plenty, but I’m not sentimental about people who make easily avoidable, repeated fuck-ups and that bloody shop was a fuck-up from the start.’
He heard beeping.
‘Got another call?’
‘Yes, sorry – I’ll have to take this, it’s Ryan. I’ll—’
‘Fine, speak to you tomorrow,’ said Strike curtly, and he rang off.
‘Hi,’ Robin said to her boyfriend.
‘Everything OK with you?’ asked Murphy.
‘Great,’ she answered, because what else could she say?
I think, tomorrow, we might be breaking a case the police got badly wrong, but I haven’t been able to tell you how we got there, because that would involve me telling you a whole load of things I’ve been deliberately concealing from you. Also, my work partner’s about to break into a private house again and I haven’t done anything to stop it.
‘What’s going on with you?’ she asked. ‘How’s the pipe bomb guy?’
‘Confirmed as a kid with interpersonal problems,’ said Murphy. ‘Nothing to do with the Westminster attack.’
‘Good,’ said Robin, though she wasn’t sure why. Bombs were bombs. Perhaps it was a relief to think the youth had turned murderous alone, not as part of an organisation. Her sense of foreboding had been increasing throughout her conversation with Strike; Oz had an unknown number of associates.
‘Anyway,’ said Murphy, ‘I’ve been thinking about my birthday.’
It took Robin a few seconds to recalibrate her brain to everyday life. Of course, Murphy’s birthday was fast approaching: she’d need to buy him a present, in addition to those she still hadn’t purchased for her new nephews.
‘I’ve booked the restaurant at the Ritz,’ said Murphy. ‘I was thinking, we don’t push the boat out often enough. I’m giving you plenty of notice so you can get the night off, all right? Because they’ve got my credit card number.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin blankly. ‘OK. I mean – right, I’ll make sure I’ve got it off.’
Fearing she’d been insufficiently enthusiastic, she added,
‘That’ll be lovely, the Ritz.’
But after Murphy had hung up, Robin sat frozen, staring at the Raoul Dufy print hanging above her mantelpiece. It showed a seascape viewed through two open windows, and it added a trace of yearning to her sudden feeling of panic.
Her boyfriend’s preference when eating out had always been gastropubs. Never, in the whole of their relationship, had he suggested going anywhere as fancy as the Ritz. It wasn’t that he was parsimonious: on the contrary, he was a generous tipper, the first to offer to buy a round, but he’d never shown the slightest inclination for French food, or the kind of restaurant for which you needed to dress up.
Ten miles away, Strike was regretting the tone he’d taken with Robin about Kenneth Ramsay. His strictures on those who did stupid things and were far too easily forgiven by Robin had very little to do with the silver shop owner and everything to do with the lapsed alcoholic whose proposal, he was certain, was approaching fast.
Work usually enabled Strike to forget his personal troubles; he was adept at sectioning off parts of his brain and focusing exclusively on whatever needed to be done, a talent honed in the military. Unfortunately, the tactic wasn’t working particularly well these days, because the person on whom he was trying not to dwell was inextricably linked with the job.
Nevertheless, careful planning and preparation were essential if he was going to get away with what he’d be attempting the following day, so, doing his best to push thoughts of Robin and Murphy aside, Strike resumed making a list of the things that needed to be done or procured before he dealt with what would hopefully be the last part of the silver vault job. Having read through everything he’d written so far, Strike added Handcuffs (multiple?), pondered for a while longer, then wrote the word ‘priest’. This done, he turned out his desk lamp, picked up his notebook and left for his attic.
118
No man omits precaution, quite neglects
Secrecy, safety, schemes not how retreat,
Having schemed he might advance.
‘There’s a reason why we’re startin’ oot at seven a.m., is there?’ yawned Barclay, arriving at the garage where Strike kept his BMW the following morning. Barclay was holding a McDonald’s bag that smelled of bacon. Wardle, who’d arrived a couple of minutes earlier, was drinking a takeaway coffee.
‘Yeah, you two are going to go ahead and scope out the territory,’ said Strike. ‘My face and car have both been seen there, so I won’t be showing myself till after dark. You can drive us as far as the rental,’ he added, handing the car keys to Wardle. ‘Don’t want my leg seizing up if I have to fight.’
‘We can handle him, if it comes to that,’ said Wardle, walking around the car.
‘Neither of you are going to get involved in physical stuff unless it’s absolutely necessary,’ said Strike. ‘If I get caught, it’ll be a pain in the arse, because the police are already fucked off at me and I’ll be back in the news. But if a bloke who’s only just left the Met is caught breaking and entering, or my subcontractor who’s recently been arrested for climbing on roofs is done for assault, we’ll have far too high a percentage of the workforce whose names and mugs have been in the papers.’
‘Ah get car sick in the back,’ said Barclay gloomily, as Strike got into the front passenger seat.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Strike, ‘unless they’ve shoved prawns in your Egg McMuffin.’
‘Ye can forget borrowin’ mah knuckledusters, if that’s yer attitude,’ said Barclay, drawing his long legs into the car.
119
… and again begin the quest!
Here, where the reaper was at work of late…
‘Hi,’ said Midge, joining Robin at the end of Wild Court at a quarter to nine. The dull grey morning was chilly and Midge was wearing a scarf with her leather jacket, while Robin was regretting that she hadn’t put on a sweater. Both women were carrying large holdalls, and Robin smiled as Midge’s clinked.
‘Great minds,’ she said, adjusting her own on her shoulder.
‘Yeah, I brought most of my tool kit.’
They headed together into the alleyway, past the bins and the rear entrance to the Connaught Rooms.
‘How’re things with you?’ asked Robin, who hadn’t had a proper conversation with Midge in weeks.
‘Not bad. Did a bit of rebound shagging last night.’
‘Good for you,’ said Robin, feigning amusement, though ruptured relationships and hurt feelings were the last thing she wanted to think about right now. I’ve booked the restaurant at the Ritz… I’m giving you plenty of notice… ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’
‘Name’s Ellen. She’s my second to last ex’s ex.’
‘Ah,’ said Robin.
‘Always thought she was hot. She’s got a fookin’ horrible cat, though.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s only got three legs,’ said Midge.
‘You can’t blame it for that,’ said Robin, thinking of Strike.
‘And only one eye.’
‘Still—’
‘And when it’s unhappy, it shits in the bath.’