Strike would have enjoyed all this far more had he not discovered, on the news website where he’d been reading about Patterson’s conviction, a supremely vicious piece about himself, written by Dominic Culpepper. Exactly as Strike had feared, Nina had clearly informed her cousin that it was Strike who’d been keeping his wife under surveillance at the Dorchester.
Another paper had tried to run a piece a few months previously, asserting that Strike was as big a womaniser as his father, that he routinely had sex with clients, and had slept with a woman who was also in a relationship with the very barrister whom Mitch Patterson had bugged. That article had never been published because Charlotte, of all people, had not only resisted the invitation to screw Strike over in print, but had contacted those of Strike’s girlfriends she knew, to ensure that nobody talked.
But the flimsy barricade Charlotte had erected had been swept away by Culpepper’s rage and Nina’s resentment. The journalist no longer needed quotes from the ex-lovers who’d declined to talk last time, because he had his cousin, Nina, who’d provided anonymous quotes with which Culpepper was able to bolster his portrait of a grubby, unscrupulous man who used women to obtain whatever he needed, bracketing Strike with Patterson as a libidinous, parasitic scavenger, profiting from human misery and callously manipulating good-hearted people. Culpepper had also re-hashed the story of Strike’s conception, which had famously taken place on a bean bag at a druggy A-list party in 1974, and had even found someone else to speak on the record about the grubby antics of private detectives: Lord Oliver Branfoot.
Strike had never met Branfoot, but he knew what the man looked and sounded like because Branfoot was one of those public figures who managed to penetrate the mass mind like a noxious, invisible gas. Marlborough-educated, a scion of nobility, Branfoot was a large, untidy man notable for an inability to pronounce his ‘r’s. Previously a Conservative MP, he now headed various charitable and political organisations and committees, was ever-ready with a quote for the papers, sprinkled his conversation with Latin tags and capitalised to the full on the English public’s weakness for a toff who seemed ready to laugh at himself, having a fondness for appearing on political quiz shows, where he played to the hilt the part of genial, bumbling blue-blood. While Strike didn’t know exactly why Lord Oliver Branfoot should want to attach his name to the excoriation of a man he didn’t know, he could think of one obvious reason why Branfoot might want to thunder in print that the private detective business ought to be far more stringently regulated.
Strike had no illusions as to the likely trajectory of Dominic Culpepper’s fury: this article, he suspected, was an opening shot in what was likely to become an ongoing vendetta. He was conscious of a strong desire to call Robin, because the sound of her voice usually made him feel better about whatever shit he was currently dealing with, but there was a possibility that she hadn’t spotted the article yet, and it seemed the height of folly to draw her attention to it if she hadn’t.
But Robin had, of course, already seen Culpepper’s attack on her partner, because she’d read the same online account of Patterson’s conviction, and it had certainly given her food for thought as she sat at lunchtime in the bar of the Rosewood Hotel, watching Two-Times’ beautifully coiffed wife enjoying a cocktail with a female friend.
Strike might have been very slightly heartened to know that Robin was by no means as horrified by the article’s accusations and insinuations as Culpepper intended the reader to feel. Nobody had worked more closely with Cormoran Strike over the past six and a half years than Robin Ellacott, and she was prepared to swear that whatever flaws Strike might possess, he’d never slept with, nor would he ever sleep with, a client, no matter that sundry divorced and divorcing women (she remembered in particular the alluring Miss Jones) had made their willingness to do so perfectly obvious. Robin had also noted that no ex-client was quoted, even anonymously, in the article.
Nevertheless, some unknown woman who’d helped him with a case clearly had a serious grudge against Cormoran Strike, and this, Robin presumed, was Culpepper’s cousin. The implication that Strike had seduced the unknown woman in pursuit of evidence wasn’t, Robin had to admit, a pleasant thought, although it might be argued that she didn’t have much right to condemn him, having allowed an important witness and potential suspect in a previous case to press her up against a pub wall and stick his tongue into her mouth.
At this point in her musings, two texts arrived on her phone, almost back to back. The first was from Murphy, and contained a link to a new property for them to view.
This might be worth a look? I see Patterson’s got what was coming to him. Have you read the thing on Strike? X
Strike would have been delighted to know that Robin’s immediate reaction to this message was annoyance at her boyfriend and protectiveness of her detective partner. Murphy had suffered himself from bad press of late and he hadn’t even been personally named, so Robin would have hoped he’d show some fellow feeling for another man being roughed up in print. Instead of answering the message, or opening the link to what appeared to be another terraced house, this time in Wood Green, Robin opened the second text, which was from Strike himself.
Two-Times just called. He’s about to join his missus and her friend for cocktails. You can stand down, he’ll be with her for the rest of the day.
Robin had just raised her hand for her bill when her mobile rang from an unfamiliar number, though she recognised the Ironbridge area code. She answered at once.
‘Hello, this is Robin Ellacott.’
‘Hello,’ said a tentative voice far too young to be Tyler Powell’s grandmother. ‘Are you the one who’s been calling my great-aunt?’
‘If your great-aunt’s Dilys Powell, yes,’ said Robin.
‘Well, she’s in the hospital,’ said the girl.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You picked up my messages, did you?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘I’m feeding her cat. Why do you want her?’
‘I wanted to talk to her about your cousin Tyler,’ said Robin.
‘He’s not here,’ said the girl. ‘He left.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Robin. ‘Have you heard from him lately?’
Robin could hear the scratching of a pen, and surmised that the girl was either doodling or taking a note.
‘I don’t like him,’ the girl said finally. ‘We don’t talk.’
‘Well, would you mind telling your great-aunt I’ve called, and asking her to get in touch when she feels better?’ said Robin.
‘All right,’ said the girl.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Robin. ‘Can I ask your n—?’
But the girl had already hung up.
Ten minutes later the paunchy Two-Times entered the bar wearing a much-creased suit, smiling broadly at his wife and her friend. Robin gathered up her bag and coat and left, making sure not to make eye contact with Two-Times, who had a tendency to smirk whenever he spotted one of the detectives he’d paid to spy on whichever woman he was currently sleeping with.
In the lobby of the hotel, Robin paused beside a large Christmas tree surrounded by silver models of fawns. On her way here, she’d registered her proximity to the London Silver Vaults. She took out her mobile, and called Strike.