‘Shit,’ said Robin.
Strike looked round to see a Range Rover pulling out from the line of parked cars in front of the Upcott house.
‘I think Inigo’s in there,’ said Robin, peering through the windscreen. ‘Yes… he is. Gus is driving. What do we do?’
‘Follow,’ said Strike. ‘Probably a medical appointment. Be easier to talk to him away from Katya anyway.’
‘He’s going to be furious we’ve tailed him,’ said Robin.
‘Probably,’ said Strike, ‘but it’ll be a damn sight harder for him to get rid of us face to face. Anyway, he’s got it coming, the sneaky bastard.’
However, Inigo and Gus didn’t stop at either a doctor’s surgery or a hospital, but continued east. Robin could see Inigo’s profile, turned towards his son. He appeared to be telling Gus off. Occasionally, she saw a wagging finger.
‘The hell are they going?’ Strike wondered aloud, a full hour after they’d started following the Range Rover, as they reached the Dartford Crossing, the long, cable-stayed bridge crossing the Thames.
‘Inigo can’t be attending a hospital this far away, can he?’ said Robin. ‘He’s really having a go at Gus.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, who was also watching the aggressive finger-jabbing. ‘Not much wrong with Inigo’s stamina, is there?’
‘I thought Gus was supposed to be his favourite child.’
‘The fact he’s covered in hives might indicate that’s a pretty stressful position to maintain,’ said Strike. ‘Maybe he’s just told Inigo he wants to jack in the cello.’
The Range Rover continued along the M2 for another hour.
‘I think they’re going to Whitstable,’ said Robin at last, as the Range Rover turned into a road called Borstal Hill. ‘Could they be visiting someone?’
‘Or,’ said Strike, who’d had a sudden idea, ‘they’ve got a second home. It’s the kind of place where well-off Londoners would buy a little seaside residence… convenient for weekends…’
He took out his phone again, brought up the website 192.com and searched ‘I J Upcott’ and ‘Whitstable’.
‘Yeah, I’m right,’ he said, ‘they own another house here. Aquarelle Cottage, Island Wall.’
Robin followed the Range Rover into the heart of the pretty little town, past timbered houses and terraces of cottages in ice-cream colours, then along Harbour Street, which was lined with art galleries and curio shops. At last, the Range Rover made a couple of right turns, which took them into Keam’s Yard car park. Robin parked the BMW at a distance from the Range Rover and together she and Strike watched in the wing and rear-view mirrors as Gus got out of the car, unloaded his father’s wheelchair from the boot, helped Inigo descend, then pushed Inigo in his wheelchair around the corner and out of sight.
‘Think we should give them ten minutes,’ Strike said, checking the clock on the dashboard. ‘Bet Gus’ll be coming back to the car for bags. I don’t want to give them a heads up we’re here until they’ve put the kettle on and taken off their shoes. One good thing,’ he added callously, ‘it’s very hard to do a runner in a wheelchair.’
77
You weep: ‘I had such lofty aims.
My soul had yearnings truly great.
Than broken altars, dying flames,
I had deserved a better fate…’
Having watched Gus unload a pair of suitcases from the back of the Range Rover and given him sufficient time to carry them into the house, Strike and Robin got out of the BMW. A pebble beach lay on the other side of the car park’s stone wall, and the Cornish-born Strike experienced that slight lift of the spirits the smell of the sea and the sound of lapping waves always gave him.
Island Wall, which lay right around the corner from the car park, was a narrow street that sloped downwards. The terrace of painted houses on the right-hand side would have an unimpeded rear view of the sea. Aquarelle Cottage, which lay several houses down, was painted eau-de-nil, and the stained-glass fan window over the door depicted a galleon in full sail.
There didn’t appear to be a bell, so Strike lifted the anchor-shaped knocker and rapped twice. Barely ten seconds passed before Gus opened the door.
Recognising Strike and Robin, his expression changed to one of horror. Robin had time to note that his hives, though no longer encroaching on his bloodshot eyes, remained as inflamed as ever.
‘Who is it?’ called Inigo from inside the house.
Gus turned to see his father wheeling himself into sight. Inigo, too, seemed temporarily stunned by the appearance of the two detectives, but his habitual manner reasserted itself almost at once.
‘What the—?’
‘Morning,’ said Strike, with what Robin felt was remarkable sangfroid given the look of rage on Inigo’s face. ‘Wondered whether we could have a word, Mr Upcott?’
Inigo wheeled himself closer. Gus pressed himself against the wall in a manner that suggested he’d have liked to disappear into it.
‘Have you—? How did you even know I was—? Have you been following me?’
Slightly regretting that it would’ve been impolitic to say, Obviously we have, you pompous prick, Strike said, ‘We were hoping to catch you at home in Hampstead, but as you were pulling away when we turned up, we came after you.’
‘Why?’ demanded Inigo. ‘What – why—? This is outrageous!’
‘We think you might have information that’s important to our investigation,’ said Strike, slightly raising his voice, because a couple of young women were passing and he suspected that Inigo would fear the neighbours knowing his business even more than the possible consequences of letting Strike and Robin inside. Sure enough, though he looked, if anything, angrier, Inigo said,
‘Don’t stand on the doorstep shouting! My God, this is a complete – absolute—’
Robin’s years with the agency had taught her that, however unwelcome a visit from a private detective might be, nearly everyone wanted to know why they’d come, so she was unsurprised when Inigo snarled,
‘I’ll give you five minutes. Five.’
He attempted to reverse away from them as they entered, but in his agitation collided with the wall.
‘Bloody help me!’ he barked at his son, who hurried to do so.
The house, as they saw once they’d stepped inside and closed the door, had been adapted to the high standard of their Hampstead home. The ground floor had been converted into an open-plan area incorporating kitchen, dining and sitting areas, all with smooth floorboards. To the rear of the house were French windows which opened onto a garden that had also been adapted for Inigo’s wheelchair, with a sloping stretch of decking that led up to a platform, on which stood a large sunshade, table and chairs, that overlooked the sea. A palm tree stood in the middle of a small patch of lawn, rustling gently in the warm breeze.