She opened the photo that had just been sent to her and held out her phone so that Strike could look at it too.
‘Yeah, he looks the part,’ said Strike. ‘Eighty-eight on his bicep, Hitler Youth hair… slight overkill, in fact. What’s the police’s advice?’
‘Clear out,’ said Robin. ‘In case anything arrives by post.’
‘Good,’ said Strike. ‘If he hadn’t said it, I would’ve.’
‘Bugger,’ said Robin, bowing her head so that her forehead rested on the steering wheel and closing her eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s just…’
Strike reached out and patted her on the shoulder.
‘How would you feel about staying overnight in Whitstable? Nice enough place. Nobody knows we’re here. We’ll take stock, work out a plan of action. You missed the meatiest parts of Inigo too. Plenty to discuss.’
‘Really?’ said Robin, lifting her head again, wanting distraction from the thought of her new home, so briefly a haven, now a target for the far-right.
‘Yeah. He thinks Anomie’s Yasmin Weatherhead.’
‘Is she hell,’ said Robin, and Strike was vaguely amused to see Robin’s scorn at Inigo’s theory, even in the face of her new and formidable worries. ‘Yasmin’s not that good an actress, and nobody gullible enough to think they were having an online affair with a successful TV actor could have kept themselves hidden this long.’
‘I agree. But Inigo claims he overheard her confessing to being Anomie while snogging Nils de Jong at a North Grove Christmas party.’
‘What?’
‘I know. Not as unpleasant an image as Ashcroft and Zoe, but—’
‘I don’t believe Inigo heard that,’ said Robin. ‘Sorry, but I don’t. If the clinch happened, I’ll bet they were drunk—’
‘Nils must’ve been, anyway.’
‘He’s not exactly a catch,’ retorted Robin. ‘A stoner fascist, who comes with a kid who might slit your throat in the night?’
Strike laughed.
‘Although,’ Robin added, unsmiling, ‘he is a multimillionaire. And a potential source of gossip on Josh and Edie. And Mariam obviously sees something in him… and the other woman who lives there sleeps with him too… am I a prude? I couldn’t live like that. I don’t get it…
‘What was I saying?’ she asked absently. Her thought processes had been disrupted: eighty-eight on his bicep, photographs of her flat, clear out, you don’t know what might be coming through the post. ‘Drunk, yes,’ said Robin, forcing herself to focus. ‘I bet Nils was just rambling on about anomie, Alpines and chakras, all his usual stuff – Pez said they’re his greatest hits – and Inigo misheard something she said back.’
‘Think you could well be right,’ said Strike. ‘Inigo didn’t say how much he’d drunk either. He could’ve been pissed as well. I got the impression he’s so angry at Katya he wants Anomie to be her fault somehow.’
‘D’you think he’s jealous, because she’s in love with Blay?’ asked Robin.
‘Not sure it’s even that,’ said Strike. ‘That probably hurts Inigo’s ego, but it’s not as though he hasn’t played away himself, is it? No, I think he’s just raging at the world for not granting him the appreciation he deserves and he takes it out on his wife. You were there for the spiel about him being a multi-talented genius who was cut off in his prime, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, though she added, ‘In fairness, he is ill.’
‘He owns two very nice houses and he’s well enough to have affairs, paint, play the keyboard and run a website,’ said Strike. ‘Daddy the bishop left him a lot of cash, by the looks of it. I can think of plenty of people more deserving of pity than Inigo Upcott. You missed another interesting point, though. He’s just told me where Nils got all that Alpine racial crap. It comes from a writer called Julius Evola. Far-right philosopher.’
‘Evola?’ repeated Robin. ‘I feel like I’ve seen that name somewhere…’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d heard it recently, too, but I couldn’t remember where.’
Robin sat ransacking her memory for a brief spell, then said,
‘Oh, of course. I said it to you. I am Evola.’
‘What?’ said Strike, confused.
‘It’s the username of one of the trolls who hang around the Ink Black Heart fans on Twitter. I am Evola. He’s basically a second Lepine’s Disciple, who’s there to tell girls to kill themselves, or that they’re ugly whores.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, I remember… I assume you’ll need to buy some stuff, if we’re going to check into a B&B? Because I will. No, sod it,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his own phone. ‘I’m not in the mood for slumming it. It’s a business expense; let’s go somewhere decent.’
When he looked down at his mobile’s screen he found a new text from Madeline waiting for him. From the couple of visible sentences, it looked as though it might be lengthy. He swiped it away without reading it and Googled places to stay in Whitstable.
‘Marine Hotel looks good. Three stars, seafront, just up the road… I’ll ring them now—’
But before he could do so, the phone in his hand rang. It was Madeline.
‘I’ll take this outside,’ said Strike.
In fact, he didn’t want Robin to watch him letting the call go to voicemail. He got out of the car. Gus and the Range Rover had departed: in their place stood an old Peugeot, from which a family with two tiny boys was disembarking. Strike walked away from the BMW, his phone still ringing, and climbed the short flight of concrete steps that led up out of the car park, pausing at the top looking at the wide expanse of sea beyond the pebble beach. He’d have liked to descend the steps on the other side, but his prosthetic leg definitely wouldn’t be equal to the unstable surface, so instead he breathed deeply of the familiar, comforting briny smell, watching the sea curl into lacy ruffles around a long wooden breakwater, while his mobile rang in his hand. When at last it had stopped ringing, he opened the text Madeline would have undoubtedly expected him to have read before they next spoke.
If you’re angry at me, I’d rather you told me so, rather than give me the silent treatment. What I can’t take is being lied to and taken for a fool. When a man pretends the woman he’s working with is room service, he shouldn’t be surprised when his girlfriend is suspicious and pissed off. I’m too old to play stupid games, I’ve been through this kind of shit too many times and I’m not OK with being told transparent lies about where you are and who you’re with. I’m sure you’ll take the view that I’m being possessive and unreasonable, but for me this is a matter of basic self-respect. I was warned this is what you’re like, I didn’t listen and now I feel like I’m a bloody fool for ever going near you. After last night, I think I’m owed an actual conversation rather than having to chase you by text, so please call me.
Expressionless, Strike dialled voicemail and listened to the message Madeline had just left, which comprised three words delivered in a cold voice: ‘Please call me.’
Instead of doing so, Strike rang the Marine Hotel. Having secured two rooms for the night, he returned to the BMW and a blank-faced Robin.
‘We’re in at the Marine Hotel. You all right?’