‘What’s Tish’s surname?’
‘Benton, Tish Benton,’ said Zacharias with a promptitude that suggested a vengeful hope that Strike would redirect his unnerving attention towards his ex.
‘Have you got a number for her?’
‘Not a current one.’
‘Any idea where she’s living?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias. ‘Try her parents, they’re in Hampshire.’
Strike made a note, then said,
‘What was that about Rupert ripping up his clothes?’
‘Not his clothes,’ said Zacharias, as though Strike were the one who’d said it, not him, ‘just this stupid bloody lucky T-shirt he used to wear all the time. He tore it up. Like a – you know – gesture, I s’pose. Get more sympathy off Tish,’ he sneered.
‘When did Rupert tear up his T-shirt?’
‘I don’t know, not long before I left…’
Zacharias glanced at something out of the frame of the shot, possibly an approaching employer, because he next said,
‘I’m going to have to go, I’ve got work to do.’
‘What are you up to, over there?’ asked Strike.
‘Eco-lodge tourism stuff,’ said Zacharias dourly.
It was, Strike thought, the twenty-first century equivalent of shunting off the unsatisfactory son to the colonies. Possibly the ease with which Zacharias’s family had provided him with a comfortable sinecure accounted for the throwaway suggestion that Rupert Fleetwood might have disappeared to the Alps to become a ski instructor.
‘Can I ask one last question?’ said Strike.
‘What?’ said Zacharias ungraciously.
‘Did either you or Rupert know a man called Osgood, or Oz?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias.
‘Ever hear Rupert mention anyone of that name?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias again.
Strike heard a door open offscreen.
‘I’ve got to go,’ said Zacharias hurriedly. He leaned forwards, pressed a button, and disappeared.
The detective sat back in his chair, frowning at the blank screen, then looked down at his notes.
Tish Benton knows more?
Fleetwood speaks German and Italian
Destroyed ‘lucky T-shirt’
He doubted this information would crack the case, and he needed some kind of breakthrough, because the expense of the expanding investigation was growing steadily higher. There was still a trip to Scotland and Ironbridge to come, and Strike hadn’t forgotten that Decima’s restaurant appeared to be in trouble. Tearing the page out of his notebook, he got to his feet, unfolded the wooden wings over the cork noticeboard and pinned these sparse notes beneath the picture of Rupert Fleetwood.
There’d been a new addition to the board since he last viewed it, clearly put there by Robin when she’d passed through the office. This was a printout of the article Robin had found online, screenshotted and already sent to Strike. It related to a Swedish woman called Reata Lindvall, who’d been murdered alongside her six-year-old daughter in Belgium, in 1998. Her ex-lover had been found guilty of the crimes and sentenced to life imprisonment.
Strike had already responded to Robin’s text about Lindvall with a non-committal ‘worth bearing in mind’, but he didn’t want to clutter up the board with things that, in his view, had only remote speculative value. All their current candidates for William Wright had been children when Lindvall had been murdered and none had any known connection to Belgium. Had any other detective at the agency pinned the paragraph there, he’d have taken it straight down again, but as it was Robin’s, he left it there, for now.
Taking a step backwards, coffee in hand, Strike examined the pattern most of the notes made, set in columns beneath their possible Wrights. Strike had no hunches about any of them, no underlying certainty that there was their man; it seemed eminently likely, still, that William Wright had been somebody else entirely.
He returned to his desk, picked up his mobile, and called Robin. She answered, and he could hear that she was driving.
‘Where are you?’
‘Mrs Two-Times is in Chelsea,’ said Robin.
‘Well, I just wanted to say, very good work on Schiff. If she—’
‘Shit!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s the clutch on this bloody hire car, it keeps sticking.’
‘Have you had a look for a new Land Rover yet?’
‘Yes, but there’s nothing I can realistically afford, not even if the business helps,’ said Robin, who sounded harried. ‘Sorry, Strike, I’m going to have to concentrate, the traffic’s bad and this bloody clutch—’
‘OK, speak lat—’
Robin hung up.
Strike sat back down at his computer and reached for his now cold coffee and his vape pen, thinking how impractical it was for the business to keep hiring cars for Robin. Her Land Rover was associated in his mind with many significant journeys, with jokes, shared food and long conversations. Some of their best times together had been in that draughty old car, with the tin in the glove compartment for him to use as an ashtray and its increasingly persistent rattle…
Strike reached yet again for his mobile and called Lucy.
‘Just saw I missed you earlier.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad you called back,’ said his sister, sounding just as stressed as she had the last two times they’d spoken. ‘It’s the house. Greg’s insisting we hold out for more, but I’ve just heard from the estate agent. The Smiths definitely can’t go any higher—’
‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ said Strike dishonestly, ‘about what Ted and Joan would’ve wanted.’
‘Greg says they’ll have wanted us to get the most we can,’ said Lucy.
I’ll bet he fucking does.
‘You know, for the boys’ future,’ said Lucy quickly, ‘and for us, I suppose.’
‘D’you honestly think they’d have cared more about the money than who moved in?’ asked Strike. ‘I know we’ll be able to flog it to some London lot who want a second home—’
‘They wouldn’t have wanted that,’ said Lucy. ‘No, they’d have wanted locals.’
‘Well, exactly,’ said Strike. ‘How old did you say the Smiths’ kids are?’
‘Six and eight, I think.’
‘It’d be like Ted, Joan and us all over again,’ said Strike shamelessly.
Lucy made a small noise he suspected indicated tears.
‘Look, it’s up to you,’ he said. ‘If you’d rather hold out for more money—’
‘No, you’re right, you’re absolutely right,’ said Lucy, her voice breaking. ‘That is what they’d have wanted, for it to stay a proper family home. I’ve been thinking that all along, but Greg – no, that’s made up my mind. I want the Smiths to have it.’
‘Well, I agree,’ said Strike. ‘I think Ted and Joan would’ve been pleased. They weren’t mercenary people.’
‘No,’ said Lucy, and she blew her nose. ‘You’re right, they weren’t. Thanks, Stick, this is honestly such a weight off my mind, I’ve been really stressing about it. How are you, any—?’
‘I’m great. Sorry, Luce, I’m going to have to go, I’m on a job. Keep me posted on the Smiths.’
He hung up. With the money from the sale of the Cornwall house in his account, he’d not only be free of the burden of keeping an eye on the place at a distance of nearly three hundred miles, he’d also be able to offer Robin a personal loan to buy a new Land Rover. His mood somewhat improved, he set to work to try and find contact details for Tish Benton.