‘D’you have any reason to think she’s Anomie, other than her working in IT?’
‘Certainly. I heard her admit to it,’ said Inigo, now with an air of malicious triumph. ‘I accompanied Katya to a Christmas party at that damned art collective. I needed the bathroom. Took a wrong turning, and there was Yasmin in a clinch with that revolting man who runs the place.’
‘Nils de Jong?’ said Strike, now taking out his notebook for the first time and opening it.
‘I don’t know what his bloody name is. Gigantic haystack of a man. Stank of pot. He’d just been spouting Evola at me.’
‘Evola?’ repeated Strike, now writing. He had an idea he’d heard the name recently, though couldn’t think where.
‘Julius Evola. Far-right philosopher. Ludicrous racial theories. A rather determinedly eccentric classmate of mine at Radley was partial to him. Used to carry The Myth of the Blood around and read it ostentatiously at meal times.
‘The two of them didn’t realise I was there. It was dark where they were standing and I made no footsteps, obviously,’ said Inigo, indicating his wheelchair again. ‘Anyway, I heard her say it. “I’m Anomie.”’
‘You’re certain of that?’ asked Strike.
‘I know what I heard,’ said Inigo, his jaw clenched. ‘Go and question the two of them. For all I know, they’re in it together. He might be Morehouse, mightn’t he?’
‘Ah, you know the name of Anomie’s partner?’
‘I’ve had no choice but to know,’ snarled Inigo. ‘Between Katya and Blay talking endlessly about Anomie and that damn game, and Kea worrying she’ll be accused, I’m as well-informed as anyone can be who’s got virtually no interest in the matter.’
‘Have you told Kea your theory about Anomie?’ Strike asked Inigo.
‘Yes.’ His tone softened. ‘She doesn’t believe it. She’s naive in some ways. Unworldly. She’s convinced Anomie’s an unsavoury Scouse artist who lives at that bloody North Grove as well. Something Presley, I think he’s called. He was at that party too. He’s a cocky little bastard, and apparently he sexually assaulted Kea once, when he got her into his bedroom. Disgusting,’ spat Inigo. ‘Naturally it left its mark. Kea says this Anomie made a play for her, sexually, online, which led her to think it was this Presley.
‘Kea’s an innocent,’ said Inigo, the colour rising in his face again. ‘She doesn’t realise the games people play. It wouldn’t occur to her that a woman would try to lure her into a sexually compromising conversation.’
‘What do you imagine Yasmin would achieve, by doing such a thing?’
‘A hold over her. Something to use against her, to threaten her with. Yasmin’s highly manipulative, not to mention a snoop.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Her behaviour, in our house,’ said Inigo. ‘She’d make excuses to drop by, if Blay and Ledwell weren’t available, or had forgotten to pass on emails or what have you. Eyes everywhere. Little questions. Scavenging for information. Oh, I can see how Katya was taken in at first. Yasmin pretended to be concerned and sympathetic, nothing too much trouble. Then, gradually, one realised she was a parasite, pure and simple. She’s Anomie.’
They heard the front door open and Gus reappeared, laden with bags of food from Sainsburys, followed by Robin, who looked tense.
‘Dad,’ said Gus, ‘I’m going to have to go if I’m going to make it to—’
‘And I’m supposed to put all that away, am I?’ his father demanded.
‘I’ll do the milk and stuff,’ said Gus, who seemed torn between fear and a desperate desire to leave that had made him, perhaps atypically, assertive, ‘but if I don’t go now—’
He hurried towards the kitchen and began taking bottles of milk and other perishables out of the bags and placing them hurriedly into the fridge.
‘Whose fault is it,’ his father called savagely over his shoulder, ‘that you need extra tuition because you’ve fallen behind? Whose fault, you bloody malingerer?’
Gus, whose expression was hidden by the fridge door, didn’t answer. Inigo turned back to Strike and said peremptorily,
‘There’s nothing else I can tell you. That’s everything I know. This is all going to cause me endless stress and disruption,’ he added, on a fresh surge of anger.
‘But whose fault is it,’ said Strike, getting to his feet – he was tired of this petulant, arrogant, embittered man, and disliked the contrast between the way he treated his children and the solicitude he displayed towards a pretty young woman who’d groomed him so expertly – ‘that you hid from your wife that you’ve been chatting up Kea Niven on the sly?’
Robin saw Gus look round, wide-eyed, as he closed the fridge. For a brief moment, Inigo appeared winded. Then he said in a low growl,
‘Get the hell out of my house.’
78
Why should I praise thee, blissful Aphrodite?
Thou dost not guide,
Rather with conflict dire my mind divide…
‘Who was that on the phone?’ Strike asked Robin, once both were back on the pavement. He had a feeling her strained expression related to the call she’d just taken. Robin moved a few feet away from the Upcotts’ front door before turning to face him.
‘Police. They’ve been tailing a guy they know is Halvening. He went to Blackhorse Road an hour ago and took pictures of the block where my flat is.’
‘Fuck,’ said Strike. ‘OK, let’s—’
He broke off. Gus Upcott had just emerged from Aquarelle Cottage and he looked alarmed to find the two detectives still hanging around.
‘Were you waiting for me?’
‘No,’ said Strike and Robin simultaneously.
‘Oh,’ said Gus. ‘Well, I’m – I’m going that way.’
He pointed back towards the car park.
‘So are we,’ said Strike, so the threesome walked in silence back up the street. As they rounded the corner, Gus suddenly blurted,
‘She’s not the only one he talks to.’
‘Sorry?’ said Strike, whose thoughts were still with The Halvening, and Robin’s flat.
‘My father talks to another woman.’
Gus had the air of one determined on some reckless course of action. The daylight was cruel to his disfigured complexion, but somewhere under the hives was a good-looking boy. He smelled as young men who aren’t especially dedicated to hygiene often smell; a little dank and oily, and his crumpled black T-shirt looked as though it had been worn for days.
‘Off the same website. I’ve seen her messaging him. She’s called Rachel.’
When neither detective spoke, Gus said,
‘He’s been unfaithful to my mother before. She thinks it all stopped.’
‘Rachel,’ repeated Robin.
‘Yeah,’ said Gus. ‘I can’t tell Mum. He’d kill me. Anyway, I’ve got to go.’
He walked away, unlocked the Range Rover and got into it, leaving Strike and Robin to proceed to the BMW, which they entered before either said another word.
‘What else did the police say?’ Strike asked, once both car doors were closed. He was currently far more concerned about terrorists than Inigo Upcott’s love life.
‘Well, they’ve got a plainclothes officer watching my flat now,’ said Robin, who was staring straight ahead at the car park wall, rather than at Strike. ‘And they’re still tailing the guy who took the pictures. They haven’t arrested him, because they think he’s quite low-level and they’re hoping he’s going to lead them to the higher-ups… or to the bomb-makers.’ She now dropped her gaze to the mobile she was still holding. ‘The policeman said he’d text me a – he has,’ she added.