‘Fine,’ she said, with an air of pulling herself together.
‘Good,’ said Strike. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat, buy toothpaste and socks, and we can log back into that bloody game once we’re at the hotel.’
79
Love never comes but at love’s call,
And pity asks for him in vain;
Because I cannot give you all,
You give me nothing back again.
Having bought various necessities for an overnight stay and consumed sandwiches in a local café, Strike and Robin arrived at the Marine Hotel at two o’clock. The long red-brick building, which had many gables and doors onto the street, had white timber balconies running along its length. Separated from the pavement by a low, neat hedge, it faced the beach across the road and looked smart and well-maintained.
Strike had been told on the phone that he’d been lucky to secure the last two vacant rooms for this Saturday night, and on setting eyes on the hotel’s front as they drove around to the rear car park, conceived an optimistic hope that he’d at least be able to conduct his forthcoming talk with Madeline from one of those sea-view balconies, preferably with a whisky from the minibar in his hand.
This bittersweet vision was shattered at reception, where a large suited man repeated cheerfully that they were very fortunate to have got the only two vacant rooms, which were on the top, balcony-free floor.
‘Numbers thirty and thirty-two. Up the stairs, double back, up the next flight, then another flight to your rooms.’
‘Is there a lift?’ asked Strike, taking the keys and handing one to Robin.
‘There is,’ said the man, ‘but not up to those particular rooms.’
With a brief smile he turned to greet a couple right behind Strike.
‘Great,’ growled Strike as they climbed the first narrow staircase, which was covered in a seventies-style carpet patterned with orange and brown leaves. ‘No offer to help with luggage either.’
‘We haven’t got any luggage,’ said Robin reasonably: each was carrying a small, not particularly heavy rucksack.
‘Not the point,’ panted Strike as they approached the second flight. His hamstring had had enough of stairs and the end of his stump was starting to smart again.
‘Three stars doesn’t mean Ritz-type service,’ said Robin, forgetting that there’d been a tacit taboo over the mention of the Ritz since their evening there. ‘Anyway, I think this is the best the accountant’ll let us get away with.’
Strike made no reply: his stump was starting to shake with the effort of climbing and he was afraid the spasms of the previous morning might be about to recur. The third flight of stairs took them past a small alcove behind the banisters, in which stood a display of model yachts and earthenware pots. The now-sweating Strike found this irritating rather than charming: if they had spare space, why not put in another fucking lift?
At last they reached a small landing where two doors stood side by side, evidently occupying two halves of a single eave.
‘Swap,’ said Robin, taking the key to number 32 out of Strike’s hand and handing him that of number 30.
‘Why?’
‘You can have the sea view. I know you’ve got that Cornish thing going on.’
He was touched, but too out of breath and worried about his leg to become effusive.
‘Thanks. Listen, I’ve got a couple of things to deal with. I’ll knock on your door when I’m done and we can discuss plans.’
‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll go and log into the game.’
She opened her door and entered a pleasant attic room which had a sloping white timber ceiling and a view over the car park to the rear of the building. It contained both a double and a single bed, both with spotless white counterpanes. Robin imagined their accountant, who was a singularly humourless man, asking why they couldn’t have cut costs by sharing. Barclay’s comment after his sole encounter with the man had been ‘Looks like he shits staples.’
The unpacking of Robin’s new rucksack – she’d felt uncomfortable turning up at a hotel with shopping bags – took only a few minutes. Having hung up the shirt she’d bought, she placed her toiletries in the en-suite bathroom, then sat down on the double bed, where three electronic devices – her own phone, the burner phone of which Pez Pierce had the number and her iPad – now lay.
A text from her mother had arrived while she and Strike had been checking in.
How are you? Have you had any updates from the police?
Fully alive to the irony of her mother’s text sitting on top of the picture of the young terrorist who’d been surveying her new flat, Robin typed back:
I’m fine! Police are updating us regularly, they say they’re making progress. Please don’t worry, I promise you I’m taking all precautions and completely OK. Love to
Dad xxx
She then picked up the temporary phone and, with a slight sinking of the heart, saw that Pez Pierce had sent her a photo.
Please don’t be a dick pic, she thought, opening it, but Pez had sent what she supposed might be considered the opposite: a drawing of a naked brunette, one arm placed coyly across her breasts, the other hand hiding her pubis. It took Robin a few seconds to realise that the drawing was supposed to be her, or rather Jessica. Underneath, Pez had written a single word:
Accurate?
Both picture and message had been sent over two hours previously. Jessica Robins surely had a busy social life, so Robin decided a two-hour lapse was perfectly reasonable, and texted back:
Spot on. You draw shoulders MUCH better than I do
She tossed the burner phone aside and picked up her iPad to log into the game. Anomie was absent: the only moderators present were Hartella and Fiendy1. To Robin’s surprise, Fiendy1 immediately opened a private channel to her.
Fiendy1: I went and looked at that Ferdinand header on YouTube
Fiendy1: fkn incredible
Robin stared at this message, totally at a loss. Who was Ferdinand? Was this message even meant for her?
Fiendy1: £18m transfer fee seems like nothing now lol
Football, thought Robin, remembering how Strike had told her that he and Fiendy1 had enjoyed a private-channel chat the night before last, while he was impersonating Buffypaws. She had half a mind to bang on the wall and ask Strike what they’d said to each other, but as he’d said he had things to take care of, she grabbed her phone and Googled ‘Ferdinand £18m transfer fee’ instead.
While Robin was deducing that Fiendy1 was talking about Rio Ferdinand, who’d scored a famous header for Leeds United against Deportivo in 2001, Strike was sitting a few feet away on his own double bed, in a room that was a mirror image of Robin’s. He’d done no unpacking, because his priority had been removing his prosthesis. Instead of enjoying his sea view, he was now watching his stump twitch uncontrollably inside his trouser leg.
A cursory glance around the room had revealed the absence of a minibar, which he now supposed was only to be expected – this wasn’t, as Robin had pointed out, the Ritz – but which made him feel no more kindly towards the hotel. Perhaps whisky mid-afternoon was a bad habit to slip into, but between the bombing, the arrival of a young Halvening member on Robin’s street, the recurrence of spasms in his stump and the imminent prospect of a ‘proper talk’ with Madeline, a calming shot of alcohol would have been highly welcome.