‘Bad English,’ repeated Robin. ‘You think the girl was Spanish?’
‘Could well be,’ said Strike. ‘Shame the dozy prick deleted the emails.’
‘But what kind of “prank” would involve Oz entering the shop under cover of darkness and coming out covered in bloodstains?’
‘She might not’ve noticed the bloodstains if he was staggering under the weight of the Oriental Centrepiece,’ said Strike.
‘But how did he explain away coming back out of the shop with a full set of men’s clothes? Because Wright had been stripped, remember.’
‘Yeah, good point,’ said Strike, frowning. ‘Might call Wardle back and point out the coincidence of Sofia Medina’s appearance and clothing matching the description of the woman who visited Wright’s house in the early hours of the morning, though.’
Strike was still standing with his back to Robin, scanning the increasingly full noticeboard. While he did so, Robin agonised over what she ought to do about Jonny Rokeby’s message. She’d have quite liked to withhold it, because unless there’d been communication between them of which she was unaware, the last words her partner had spoken to his father were ‘go fuck yourself’. However, it would definitely be wrong not to pass on the offer of legal assistance.
Unaware of what was going on behind his back, Strike, who was looking at a new piece of paper pinned beneath the picture of Tyler Powell, said,
‘You found “Griff”.’
‘What?’ said Robin.
‘“Man Tyler Powell confided in, instead of his grandmother”, it says here.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Robin. ‘Dilys said “he told Griff where he was going, not me”. I think that’s his address. Dilys said Griff lives “up the road” and an Ian Griffiths lives right opposite Tyler’s parents. He might be worth talking to, as well as Dilys.’
‘And Dilys could meet us any time in January?’ said Strike, still reading Robin’s note.
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘I’ve been putting more pressure on Jade Semple and she seems to be wavering. I’ve reassured her I’m not working for the press, although I can’t see why she’s so worried about that. If she genuinely wants to find her husband, a bit more coverage might help. Anyway, if I can get her to agree, we’ll try and book those interviews around the same time, pick them off together.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, still trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Rokeby.
Strike turned away from the board, and was about to embark on a discussion of the best way for them to travel from London to Ironbridge, when Robin said,
‘Listen, I’ve got something to tell you,’ (and for a second, Strike remembered that it was he who’d planned to say those words, or something very like them, this morning) ‘but please – please don’t fly off the handle. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’
‘All right,’ said Strike, wondering what on earth was coming. She wouldn’t preface an announcement of her engagement with these words, would she?
‘Your father just called the office. He saw that article and he’s offering help – legal help. He says he’ll pay for his own lawyers to take action.’
Strike simply stared at her. On the other side of the door, Robin could hear Kim laughing.
‘He phoned while you were talking to Robertson,’ said Robin. ‘I told Pat to take a message, and – well, that’s it. He said he felt bad that – that he’d been dragged up in the story, so he wanted to help. Pat says he was nice… Don’t go ballistic. Please.’
‘I’m not going to,’ said Strike, with difficulty.
Not with you here, anyway.
Robin checked the time on her phone.
‘I’d better get going,’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘You driving to Yorkshire this afternoon?’
‘This evening,’ said Robin, ‘but I need to pack and sort a few things out.’
In fact, she had an appointment with her GP that afternoon. It had been difficult to get one before Christmas and she didn’t want to miss it.
‘I’ve got your present here,’ said Robin, now reaching into her bag and pulling out what looked like a card. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, but you’ll understand when you open it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Strike, taking it automatically. ‘I left yours upstairs. Hang on.’
Robin followed him into the outer office, where Kim was leaning up against the sink, coffee in hand. As Strike headed for the glass door, Kim said,
‘Thanks for the gift token, Cormoran.’
‘Thank Robin, it was her idea,’ said Strike. He left for his flat. As soon as the glass door had closed, Pat said to Robin in the growl that passed for her whisper,
‘Did you tell him?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘What’s he going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin.
Kim’s bird-bright eyes were moving from one to the other; Robin could almost see her nose quivering with curiosity.
Strike was back within a few minutes, holding a small, flat square box wrapped in Christmas paper, and a card.
‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, handing it to Robin.
‘Th—’
The phone on Pat’s desk rang and Robin felt her stomach clench.
Please God, not Rokeby again.
‘Strike and Ellacott Detective Agency… who?’
Pat’s eyes widened.
‘Just going to put you on hold.’
She pressed a button and looked round at Strike.
‘He says he’s Sacha Legard.’
‘What?’ said Kim, eyes widening. ‘The actor?’
‘I’d better get going,’ said Robin, who was holding her present. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’
Had Kim and Pat not been there, and Legard not waiting on hold, she might have said more to Strike, might have reiterated her plea for him not to blow up at his father, for his own sake rather than Rokeby’s, but as it was, she just smiled at him, turned and left.
‘OK,’ Strike said dourly to Pat (fuck Rokeby, fuck Christmas, fuck fucking Culpepper, fuck fucking everything), ‘put Legard through to me in here.’
He retreated to the inner office again. The phone on his desk rang.
‘Strike.’
‘Cormoran,’ said Sacha Legard’s beautifully modulated voice. ‘Long time no speak.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘I didn’t realise you’d been trying to contact me.’
The fuck you didn’t.
‘I’ve had a call from Dessie Longcaster – Mullins, I mean – sounding pretty upset,’ said Legard.
‘Did she tell you what this is about?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah, my cousin Rupert,’ said Legard, with a tinge of humorous exasperation.
‘Decima’s very worried about him. Could we meet to talk?’
‘Honestly, I think this is all a bit of a storm in a teacup,’ said Legard.
Interviewers, as Strike knew, generally concurred that Sacha Legard was not only an outstanding talent, but a man of uncommon sweetness and generosity of spirit. Strike, who knew better, had avoided reading their fawning comments for years; he ate quite enough fried food, and didn’t need the increase in blood pressure. Strike now let his silence speak for him. Did Legard want to puncture his charming public image by figuring as a man unwilling to help a distressed woman? Did he really want to seem indifferent to the whereabouts of his young cousin?
‘Well, if it’ll help put Dessie’s mind at ease,’ said Legard finally, ‘of course.’
‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘Tomorrow suit you? I’m free all day.’
‘Sure. Come to the National Theatre at three. It’s our last night of—’