‘… literally offered me money to stay. Can you imagine? Money!’
‘… glad to be working over Christmas, to be honest… I’ll go and check whether we can get in there yet,’ said Kim, and she slid off the barstool and walked back off towards the ballroom, her rear view attracting plenty of attention from men in the bar.
Strike ordered a third whisky, picked up his phone again and, in search of distraction, opened the website Truth About Freemasons and began to read answers to the many questions people had come on to the website to ask. GI-67: Can Jewish people be masons? Stolkin: Yes, masons can be any religion although Catholics aren’t allowed to join by their own church. AustinH: Is it true Freemasons protect each other? Gareb 7: In a brotherly sense, yes. If you’re thinking of concealing crimes, no, that’s the mafia.
‘Doors are open,’ said Kim’s voice in Strike’s ear. ‘She’s pissed and dancing.’
Strike paid the barman and followed Kim back out into the lobby. As they approached the double doors into the ballroom, Kim slid her hand under Strike’s arm, chattering and laughing, and they passed into the gala without challenge.
Tall vases full of white flowers and crystal icicles stood on the circular tables. Uniformed waiters and waitresses were winding through the party, clearing away empty bottles. The dancefloor was crowded, but Strike spotted Mrs A on its edge, dancing face to face with the woman in the gold dress to ‘Shout Out to My Ex’.
‘How fucking appropriate is that?’ said Kim jubilantly, already gyrating to the music. ‘Shall we dance?’
‘Not my forte,’ said Strike. ‘Leg.’
‘OK, I’ll go it alone,’ said Kim, and she sashayed away from him towards Mrs A and her friend, affording him another look at that long, bare expanse of back.
‘What,’ said a frigid voice beside Strike, ‘are you doing here?’
Strike looked down to see a pale, petite brunette with large dark eyes, who was wearing a strapless black dress.
Oh, fuck.
‘Friend invited me. Good cause,’ said Strike.
‘Bullshit,’ said the Honourable Nina Lascelles.
He’d slept with her twice, six years previously. She was pretty enough, but that wasn’t why he’d done it; she’d simply helped him gain important evidence in a case. It had seemed rude at the time not to have sex with her, because she’d clearly wanted it, but their awkward, if minimal, history was far from the only reason to deplore Nina’s presence here tonight. Nina happened to be the cousin of Dominic Culpepper, the journalist Mr A suspected his ex-wife of sleeping with, and Nina had clearly drunk enough cheap champagne to make her disinhibited.
With a view to keeping the conversation civilised, Strike asked,
‘Who’re you here with?’
‘My fiancé,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Strike, ‘congratulations. Which one’s he?’
Nina pointed at a large blond man staggering around on the dancefloor beside Mrs A.
‘Nice moves,’ said Strike. Nina didn’t smile.
‘What are you really doing here?’
‘I just told you,’ said Strike. ‘Kids. Good cau—’
‘You’re here after someone.’
‘I’m a donor. The charity helped out my godson.’
‘Oh,’ said Nina. She clearly imagined even Strike wouldn’t lie about having a seriously ill godson. ‘Right. Sorry.’
He wanted to walk away, but thought it inadvisable to do it in any way she’d consider rude. Why the fuck hadn’t he just said ‘thank you’, or sent her flowers, six years ago?
Shout out to my ex…
‘Dominic’s pissed off at you,’ Nina shouted up at him. ‘He says you’ve got too grand for him. You’ll only give tips to Fergus Robertson these days.’
‘Would you say Robertson’s grander than Dominic?’ asked Strike. Robertson was a short, balding Scottish journalist of working-class origins, whereas Nina’s showbiz reporter cousin was ex-public school. When Nina’s expression remained icy, Strike said, knowing full well he wasn’t,
‘Dominic here?’
‘No,’ said Nina. ‘Is that your date?’ she asked, watching Kim dancing virtually back to back with Mrs A.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘Huh,’ said Nina, with a faint sneer. She took a clumsy swig of wine.
‘Shout Out to My Ex’ had ended. Mrs A and her friend staggered, laughing, off the dancefloor and headed for what Strike assumed would prove to be the powder room. Kim followed.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Nina, her eyes following Kim.
‘Linda,’ said Strike, off the top of his head, then wondered why the hell the first name to spring to his lips was that of Robin’s mother, who detested him.
‘Is she a detective too?’
‘No, she works in a shop.’
‘Sure she does,’ sneered Nina.
‘People do work in shops,’ said Strike. ‘Not everyone works in publishing or PR.’
‘I know that, thank you,’ snapped Nina, taking another gulp of wine.
Strike wished he still had a drink, and wished even more that Nina would sod off. Didn’t she want to dance with her fiancé, who was now staggering around to ‘Rockabye’?
‘Still at Roper Chard?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Actually,’ she added, with a slightly snide laugh, ‘if they knew I was talking to you, they’d want me to offer a deal on your memoir.’
‘There won’t be a memoir,’ said Strike.
‘I didn’t think so,’ snorted Nina. ‘Not a truthful one, anyway.’
Strike’s ego wasn’t sufficiently enlarged to believe that this degree of anger could be accounted for by a very brief liaison, six years previously.
‘What’s that mean?’ he asked.
‘It means,’ said Nina, ‘you really fucked up a friend of mine’s life.’
‘How did I do that?’ asked Strike.
‘Never mind,’ spat Nina.
Strike spotted Kim wending her way back towards him.
‘Linda,’ said Strike, before Kim could speak, ‘this is Nina. Nina, Linda.’
‘Hi,’ said Kim brightly. ‘How do you know Cormoran?’
‘We fucked twice, a few years ago,’ said Nina, leaving Strike to deplore the tendency of the upper classes to call a spade a spade.
‘Oh,’ said Kim, without a flicker of discomposure. ‘He’s good, isn’t he? Speaking of which, Corm, I’d rather be doing that. Let’s go.’
She linked her arm through Strike’s.
‘Night,’ said Strike to Nina, as he and Kim walked away.
Kim unlinked her arm from his just as Strike was about to pull away.
‘Got her, bang to rights,’ she told Strike, and held out her mobile to show him the photo she’d just taken.
Two women, one in purple, the other in gold, were closely entwined in a passionate kiss, leaning up against a tiled bathroom wall.
‘The woman in gold is Lady Violet,’ said Kim triumphantly. ‘Dominic Culpepper’s wife.’
17
Yea, and not only have we not explored
That wide and various world, the heart of others,
But even our own heart, that narrow world
Bounded in our own breast, we hardly know,