She had to tell Strike, though. Had she ever told her partner that her almost-killer had worn a gorilla mask? She didn’t think she had.
The cold had deepened outside and night was rapidly falling. Robin moved to stand beside one of the brightly lit windows, out of the way of the shopping hordes, her breath rising frostily before her. Strike answered his mobile within a couple of rings.
‘Hi,’ said Robin, trying to sound casual. ‘How was Todd?’
‘Interesting,’ said Strike. ‘Any luck on Albie Simpson-White?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘he’s meeting me after work.’
‘Great.’
‘Yes… I’m actually calling because something strange just happened,’ said Robin, doing her best to sound mildly interested, as opposed to profoundly shaken.
When she’d related the incident, Strike said incredulously,
‘He put a toy gorilla in your hand?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘And the thing is… the man who – you know – when I was nineteen – the reason I left uni – he wore a latex gorilla mask, during the… attack.’
Robin suddenly realised that she was very close to tears, and mentally crossed her fingers that Strike wasn’t about to react angrily, to chastise her for not having taken more care, or not been quick enough to spot the man who’d done it.
‘OK,’ said Strike, and to her relief, while he sounded serious, he didn’t sound angry. ‘Where are you speaking to Simpson-White?’
‘I thought somewhere round here, in a pub or something.’
‘D’you want me to come and pick you up afterwards?’
‘What?’ said Robin, with a half-laugh. ‘No, of course not. The middle of town’s packed. I’ll just—’
‘What are you doing afterwards?’
‘Meeting Ryan,’ said Robin.
‘Take a taxi,’ said Strike.
‘There’s no—’
‘Take a bloody taxi.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll take a taxi,’ said Robin. She checked the time, and started walking towards the staff entrance where she was supposed to be meeting Albie. ‘Maybe,’ she said, striving for a calm, objective tone, ‘it was – I don’t know, a coincidence or—’
‘It wasn’t a coincidence.’
‘No,’ said Robin, as double-deckers rushed past her, the faces of passers-by illuminated by the golden glow of Harrods’ windows. ‘I don’t think it was either.’
Tears stung her eyes, and for a few seconds, she wanted to run. But run where? Home to Masham, as she’d done after the rape? Back to Murphy, who she knew she wasn’t going to tell?
‘Just be vigilant,’ said Strike, and she could tell he was exerting maximum self-restraint not to say it more forcefully, ‘all right?’
‘I will,’ said Robin. ‘I promise.’
30
Ask me no more, for fear I should reply;
Others have held their tongues, and so can I…
Albie emerged from the staff entrance shortly after eight. His eyes sought Robin’s over the crowd of staff now hurrying homewards.
‘Hi,’ said Robin, and shaken though she was, she managed to sound perfectly cheerful, ‘d’you want to get something to eat? It’s on me. We could get a burger or something?’
Having three brothers, two of them younger than herself, Robin knew the importance of food to young men.
‘Er… yeah, all right,’ he said, and Robin thought she read in his expression, nervous though it was, a certain satisfaction at the fact that there was something in this for him.
‘D’you know the Alfred Tennyson pub?’ said Robin, who’d looked the place up while waiting. ‘It’s ten minutes up the road, but the food’s good.’
In fact, she’d never eaten there, but everything nearer looked even more expensive, and there was a limit to what she thought she could persuade their accountant into accepting as a legitimate business expense.
They walked through the chill evening, through throngs of passers-by, Robin making banal chitchat. They discussed the staff discount Albie received at Harrods, and what a good deal he’d got on most of his Christmas shopping. She learned that he’d recently ‘buggered his knee’ playing football, and that ‘people always think I’m posher than I am’, because of his double-barrelled name, which was really the result of his feminist mother demanding equal billing on his birth certificate. Albie seemed an amiable young man, bright though not academic (‘I can’t see the point of university, you’re just wasting time when you could be earning money’), and she was slightly puzzled to know why Rupert Fleetwood, whose behaviour – regarding the stolen nef, and towards his pregnant girlfriend – suggested fecklessness and unkindness, should have been good friends with a young man who seemed decent, hard-working and responsible.
The Alfred Tennyson was crowded, but they were able to secure a table for two in the restaurant area. Robin slid into the seat with her back to the wall; nobody else was going to approach her from behind, unseen, if she could help it. Albie, who seemed torn between pleasure at the prospect of a decent hot meal after a long day at work and worry about what was coming, ordered a burger and a pint, then sat, slightly hunched, with his hands between his knees.
‘So,’ said Robin, when the waitress had left, ‘as I said before, Albie, I’m really just looking for background. We don’t know much about Rupert, except that he and Decima were in a relationship, and that he was brought up in Switzerland by his aunt and uncle.’
‘OK,’ said Albie, looking nervous.
‘When did you first meet him?’
‘Last year. Early – like, February, I think. When he started work at Dino’s.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Two years in all. Bit over.’
‘Did you like it?’
Albie’s pint arrived, and he took a large sip before saying,
‘It was OK. Some of it. Have you spoken to Mr Longcaster?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘But I know about the nef.’
‘You don’t want to judge him by that,’ said Albie quickly.
‘Judge who? Rupert?’
‘Yeah,’ said Albie.
Robin could feel the table vibrating slightly; one of Albie’s long legs seemed to be jumping up and down.
‘You liked Rupert, though? You were friends?’
‘Yeah,’ said Albie, with a slight smile. ‘He’s a good guy. Kind of… old soul, you know? Steady. The kind of bloke everyone tells their problems to.’
This didn’t tally remotely with the idea Robin had formed of Rupert Fleetwood, who she’d been picturing as just another of the wealthy, well-born young male Londoners she’d come across during her detective career. They existed like tourists in their own city, taking the best of what it had to offer and never needing to dirty their feet where regular people trod, unless they hit some personal crisis; usually a sudden drop in funds caused either by an allowance-withholding parent or an out-of-control drug habit.
‘What d’you know about Rupert’s ex-housemate, Zac?’
‘He tried to stiff a drug dealer for payment, then fucked off and let Rupe and Tish take the heat,’ said Albie darkly.
‘Who’s Tish?’
‘Zac’s ex-girlfriend. The dealer was threatening her as well as Rupe. Trying to get to Zac through them.’