‘That’s awful,’ said Robin.
Strike reached into his pocket again and took out a further twenty pounds.
‘For your trouble,’ he said. ‘Buy Clint something for Christmas.’
‘Oh, cheers!’ said Mandy, now far happier to see them depart.
The door closed behind Strike and Robin as they walked down the steps.
‘That was nice,’ said Robin.
‘Just hope it doesn’t all go on weed. Fancy a debrief? There’s a pub up—’
‘Could we do it tomorrow?’ said Robin. ‘I’ve actually got to get going just now.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
‘I’ve got a load of paperwork to file at the office, and I don’t want to put it off, because I’m going to view a house later,’ said Robin.
‘Right,’ said Strike again.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
Strike walked slowly back towards his BMW, pulling his mobile out of his pocket as he went. Another text from Kim had followed the one he’d glimpsed inside.
Omg, sorry, that wasn’t meant for you!
He scrolled up to the previous text.
He looked SO SEXY in his dinner jacket!
19
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
‘So,’ said Murphy, setting a glass of tonic water and a packet of crisps in front of Robin six hours later, ‘that was a waste of bloody time.’
‘I know,’ said Robin.
They were sitting in the corner of a loud and noisy pub situated close to the small terraced house in Wanstead they’d just viewed. Having spent an hour in Mandy and Daz’s bedsit that morning Robin would have expected anything to look good by comparison, but she doubted the ‘three bedrooms, separate lounge and kitchen’ had been decorated or restored in thirty years. Robin and Murphy had trailed around the place in the wake of a middle-aged couple who appeared to be looking at the house as an investment opportunity: renovate, sell and reap a fat profit.
Murphy had only ten minutes to spare before he needed to set off back to work. He hadn’t told Robin exactly what was happening on his gang shooting case, or what he’d be doing this evening, had arrived late for the house viewing and been almost monosyllabic throughout. He kept checking his phone.
‘Are you OK?’ Robin asked tentatively.
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.
He took a sip of his zero-alcohol beer, then said,
‘The mother’s given a big interview to the Mail.’ Robin knew him to be referring to the woman who’d lost one child, and whose other was now blinded, in the gang shooting. ‘Probably be online soon.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ said Robin.
‘I’m just sick to the back fucking teeth of it all,’ muttered Murphy furiously. ‘We had the guy who was driving the car the shooter fired from in custody. We applied for an extension to keep questioning him and it’s been fucking refused.’
‘Why was it refused?’
‘Because he’s got a shit-hot piece of shit lawyer, that’s why.’
Robin could tell her boyfriend was in the state where neither sympathy nor further questions would be welcome. She took a sip of tonic water and opened her crisps.
‘How was your day?’ said Murphy, with an obvious effort.
‘Fine,’ said Robin, with forced brightness.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Trying to find Rupert Fleetwood. We didn’t.’
Murphy forced a smile.
Five minutes later, after finishing his drink, he said,
‘I’m gonna have to go.’
‘OK. I’m going to stay a bit longer. Might get more crisps.’
Murphy kissed her, and left.
Robin had to admit to herself that it was a relief to see him disappear. Now she could let her face fall, relish the anonymity of this crowded, noisy pub and try and address her own mood, which was a combination of anxious, miserable and another emotion she didn’t particularly want to identify.
Aside from the depressing visit to the rundown property they’d just viewed, and the disquiet that had resulted from seeing that text to Strike from Kim, Robin was now weighed down by the knowledge that she and Strike were in possession of information the police had never been given. She’d assured Mandy and Daz they wouldn’t share anything the couple had said, but of course, that had been a lie: she and Strike had an obligation to pass on important evidence to the people who ought to be dealing with it, because, whatever Murphy might think, they weren’t in the business of trying to upstage or sideline the proper authorities.
Robin had been inwardly debating whether she should tell her boyfriend about the man and woman who appeared to have taken things from William Wright’s flat before and after he’d been murdered, but, given his mood when he’d finally turned up at the terraced house, she’d decided against doing it this evening. Had she gone for a debrief drink with Strike, they could have discussed all of this, of course…
SO SEXY. Staring at the tinsel-decked bar, Robin asked herself when she’d ever needed to send Strike a text with the words SO SEXY in it. Unless she was reporting an overheard conversation, she couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which she’d have done so, even after years of deepening friendship. At the very least, they suggested a hitherto unsuspected degree of familiarity and complicity between Kim and Strike.
Her mobile screen lit up. Strike had texted her.
How was the house?
Though Robin didn’t know it, Strike was also currently sitting alone in a pub: the Flying Horse, his favourite local. He, too, was feeling depressed, although at least he had the compensations of alcohol. It had taken him half an hour to decide on sending the four-word text. He wanted to push her into admitting that she and Murphy were moving in together because, unwelcome though the announcement would be, no carefully targeted offensive action could be taken against a hidden enemy.
Robin contemplated Strike’s message for several minutes. Annoyed at him as she currently felt, she was vaguely touched that he’d bothered to ask. They were friends, after all. Best friends.
Horrible, she texted back.
Strike was very slightly cheered by this answer. At least cohabitation wasn’t imminent. He began to type again:
I think I’ve found that website William Wright was looking at, at work. www.AbusedAndAccused.org
Robin pressed the link and was taken to a website headed by the logo Kenneth Ramsay had described: two stylised hands, each of them holding an eyeball.
She scrolled slowly downwards. The website was clearly the very last resort of the desperate. Lawyers of the less reputable type posted advertisements there, trawling for those looking for compensation or appeals against convictions. Laymen were either profligate with free advice that strayed into the criminal, or had visited the site in a spirit of Schadenfreude. Anon9: I have been arrested drunk driving but nobody give my miranda rites does this mean I can apeal Dogger: Miranda warnings are only given in the states you twat AustinH: my girl frend ‘s father spread rumors I done sonething really bad . how do I stop this do I need a lawyer Kojak: I can sort that for you no lawyers involved Kibosh: Have been accused of ‘inappropriate touching’ of work experience girl, suspended on full pay, would be grateful to hear of anyone else who has been subject of similar baseless accusation. Belter: Nonce C2J88: Nonce Japh: Nonce