Almost worse: Strike had sent her an itinerary for their visit to Crieff and Ironbridge. He’d booked two sleeper berths to Glasgow for the night of the sixteenth. They were then to pick up a hire car and drive to Crieff to interview the abandoned wife of Niall Semple, before continuing south to Ironbridge, where Tyler Powell’s grandmother lived, breaking their journey overnight in the Lake District. Robin had Googled the Lake District hotel. It looked rather beautiful, with stunning views out over Windermere. She and Strike usually stayed in the cheapest possible accommodation when on investigative trips. Little ripples of nervous excitement kept hitting her at the thought of the place, and she was trying not to analyse them, because she was already burdened with so much guilt. She’d told Murphy the forthcoming three-day trip north was connected to ‘the Fleetwood case’. Thankfully, being as busy as ever at work, Murphy hadn’t asked for many details.
Robin’s nagging feelings of guilt and confusion manifested themselves outwardly as an increased niceness and consideration to her boyfriend. Before they’d returned to London, she’d agreed to put in an offer on the second house they’d viewed, but she’d known all along that it wouldn’t be accepted, and was unsurprised when they heard, at the end of the first week of January, that it had sold for nearly ten thousand pounds more than the most they could have afforded. Now Murphy was sending her the specs of other houses, and she was making half-promises to view them when she had time.
Meanwhile, she was policing and second-guessing every move she made where Strike was concerned. On the dark and dreary evening of New Year’s Day, she arrived home after a stint of surveillance of Plug, who hadn’t stirred since he got back from the pub in the small hours, and had barely pulled off her coat when Strike texted her.
Valentine Longcaster doesn’t want to talk to us. Not a big surprise. He was Charlotte’s biggest fan.
Sitting on her sofa, Robin felt again that thrill of – what? Panic? Excitement? – at the recurrence of Charlotte’s name, but she was determined to appear unflustered and professional, so she texted back:
Pity. I want to know why Rupert crashed Legard’s birthday party. On the subject of trying to get people to talk, I’ve been wondering what you’d think of me trying an approach to Gretchen Schiff, Sofia Medina’s flatmate?
Strike was slow at responding to this suggestion. After five minutes had passed, Robin thought he might have forgotten who Sofia Medina was, and added:
Sofia, the girl whose body was found on the North Wessex Downs. Pink top.
When there was still no answer, Robin took her phone with her into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Strike’s response came just as the kettle was boiling.
Sorry, thought Mrs TT was on the move, false alarm. I think trying to get Schiff to talk is a good idea. If Medina knew a bloke with dark curly hair who likes wearing sunglasses indoors, we’ve finally got something concrete.
OK, I’ll message Schiff. I’ve found her Instagram.
Robin had a couple more things she wanted to tell Strike, one of which she felt awkward and embarrassed about, while the other might be completely irrelevant to the investigation. While she was wondering whether it mightn’t be easier to broach both of them by text, rather than face to face, Strike texted again.
Newsflash: just heard from Barclay. I put him on Jim Todd this afternoon. Todd cleaned a café for two hours, then made a call from a public phone box and a pointless Tube journey.
How, pointless?
Just sat on the Circle line for an hour, going round, then got off where he got on. There’s definitely something fishy about Todd. Can’t find him in any records. Think he’s using a fake name.
Robin now received a text from Murphy, who was at work. She saw the tell-tale link to rightmove.co.uk, and swiped it away without reading it, instead texting Strike again.
You think Todd’s got a record?
Starting to think it’s odds on.
Having read this message, Robin decided to mention the subject she found awkward. In the small amount of time she’d had over Christmas that hadn’t been dedicated to fretting about her feelings for Strike, or his for her, she’d also been worrying about what he expected her to do regarding porn actor Dangerous Dick de Lion, who, if the cipher note slipped through the office door was to be believed, had been the body in the silver vault. Robin texted:
I wanted to talk to you about Dick de Lion.
There was no immediate response, possibly because Mrs Two-Times was now genuinely on the move. Robin therefore opened Murphy’s text and followed the link to the details of a house in Walthamstow. Unlike most of the two-bed-one-box-room terraced houses he’d sent her, it looked as though it was recently decorated and stood on the end of the terrace. Murphy’s text read:
Only two bedrooms, though.
Exactly how many IVF babies are you hoping for? was Robin’s immediate thought.
Her phone rang. Strike was calling instead of texting. Trying to ignore the lurch in her stomach, Robin answered.
‘What about de Lion?’ Strike asked.
‘I – well, I’m not going to be able to pretend I’m casting a porn shoot, however much research I do. Sorry, but I’m just not going to be any good at it. If you think that’s the only way to find out where he is, it’ll have to be one of the others.’
She wondered whether Strike was thinking her prudish or inadequate. The truth was that Robin had a strong aversion to pornography. The rapist who’d wrecked her fallopian tubes had kept a stack of movies focusing on throttling and rape beneath the floorboards where he’d also hidden his gorilla mask.
‘I didn’t want to have to involve any of the others on de Lion,’ said Strike.
‘Well, then, shall we concentrate on finding out who the girl was, who posted the note through the door?’
‘Shit, I forgot to tell you,’ said Strike. ‘I know who she is. Her professional name’s Fyola Fay, her real name’s Fiona Freeman, and she lives in Wimbledon. I found a website dedicated to outing female porn stars. Real names, former or current professions, marital status, etc. No equivalent site for men, unfortunately.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Robin darkly. ‘Shall I try and talk to her?’
‘We need to think that through,’ said Strike. ‘I don’t doubt she’d be happier talking to you than me, but I’ve found out she lives with a porn director who looks like he lifts buses for weights and eats steroids for breakfast. A bit of covert surveillance on the house might be needed, so we make sure to catch her at home alone.
‘By the way, we seem to have picked up another Gateshead. Crazy-sounding Scottish woman who’s called twice now, asking me to meet her at the Golden Fleece.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Strike. ‘She sounds crazy enough to have mistaken me for Jason of the Argonauts.’
Robin laughed, then said,
‘There was something else I was going to tell you, actually,’ said Robin. ‘I know it might not be relevant at all, but I Googled Rita Linda while I was home and got a search result I want you to look at. It’s the only one I’ve found that would explain “it might be in the papers” and Wright “knowing what happened t—”’