‘Healthy stuff, like—?’
‘I don’t know – nuts? Sometimes I make sandwiches… Is your leg bad?’ she asked. She’d noticed, but not mentioned, him pressing his stump to the seat.
‘Not bad enough to eat like a squirrel.’
‘I don’t eat like a squirrel,’ said Robin, ‘but I don’t fry everything and I don’t eat chips with every meal – since you ask.’
Strike sighed deeply.
‘I was hoping to hear there’s a magic pill.’
‘Sorry,’ said Robin, overtaking a dawdling Volvo, ‘no magic pill… I take it you’re hungry?’
‘Only fairly.’
‘We could stop at Cambridge Services, but not for long. I really don’t want to be late for Rachel, assuming she turns up.’
They drove on for a few minutes, until Strike said:
‘It’s all a bit The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, this meet-by-the-bench business.’
‘I bet it’s a teenage thing,’ said Robin. ‘It’s probably where she goes to meet mates… listen, I hope this is OK –’
She felt awkward about saying the next bit, because she’d never done it before.
‘– but I think I should meet her alone. She doesn’t know anything about you, and you might be a bit scary for a teenager. Also, she’s only expecting one person.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Strike, dragging on his pale imitation of a proper cigarette. ‘I’ll wait in that café she mentioned… maybe they’ll have chips.’
They made a brief stop at Cambridge Services, where Strike consumed a coffee and a tasteless oat bar while checking work emails. Robin, who’d noticed his expression change, said apprehensively,
‘What is it?’
‘Dev,’ said Strike.
‘He hasn ’t resigned as well?’
‘No… the reverse… bloody hell, he’s managed to chat up one of Charlotte and Jago’s nannies. Last night, in a pub in Kensington… she was pissed… told him neither of the people she works for are fit to be parents… “has witnessed the father being violent to his girls on multiple occasions”. Shit, this could be good.’
‘Glad you’re happy,’ said Robin drily.
‘You know what I mean. Obviously I’d rather he wasn’t kicking the shit out of his kids, but if he is, I’ll be bloody delighted to be the one to expose him.’
But you won’t expose him, will you? thought Robin, as she drank her own coffee. If you expose him, you’ve lost your hold over him. She wondered, too, at the ease with which Strike had glided over the part saying neither parent was fit to have charge of their children, but perhaps, deep down, he found it impossible to believe Charlotte was a bad mother. Aloud, she merely said,
‘I’d have thought a couple like that would have non-disclosure agreements in place for employees.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ said Strike, who was still reading Dev’s report. ‘All the kids are at Ross’s place in the country again today… Midge is there… Christ, if we could just get Ross off our backs it would help a lot.’
After half an hour at the services, they drove on, finally arriving in Leeds an hour before the scheduled appointment with Rachel, and wending their way, with the help of the BMW’s satnav, towards Meanwood Park.
‘I don’t think that’s the entrance she meant,’ said Robin as they passed a miniature temple-like gate, with a slated roof and stone pillars. ‘It must be the next one… yes, I can see the café.’
‘You’ve still got fifty-five minutes,’ said Strike, checking his watch.
‘I know,’ said Robin as she turned into a small car park and drove the BMW into a parking space, ‘but I want to get into position early and keep an eye out for her. You wait in the café and I’ll come and meet you after I’ve interviewed her – or after it’s clear she’s not coming.’
So Strike entered the Three Cottages Café alone. He hadn’t been offended by Robin suggesting that it was best that he – a bulky six- foot-three male, whose resting expression he knew to be stern, bordering on threatening – didn’t attend the interview with a frightened teenage girl, but as he ordered a coffee and resisted the temptation to ask for a scone, his thoughts lingered on the way Robin had taken charge of this particular line of inquiry. If he was absolutely honest with himself, this was the first time he’d seen her as a true partner, an equal. She’d secured the interview through her own ingenuity, then taken charge of how the interview was to unfold, telling him, effectively, that he was surplus to requirements. He wasn’t annoyed; on the contrary, he was almost amused by his relegation to a waiting role at a circular table in the airy café overlooking the sweeping lawns of Meanwood Park.
Meanwhile, Robin was heading out into the park, which was already crowded on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Following Rachel’s instructions, she turned right when the path split and walked on, with a wide stretch of parkland punctuated with trees to her right and a stream to her left, which was bordered on both sides by more trees.
After a couple more minutes she reached the bridge Rachel had mentioned: it comprised uneven, broken slabs lying across the stream, and she quickly spotted the tree with large standing stones on either side of it, and the bench with its small metal plaque:
Janet Martin
(28.02.67 – 04.12.09)
Loved Yorkshire
Loved Life. Was Loved.
Yorkshire born and bred, Robin sat down on the bench feeling kindly towards Janet Martin and scanned her surroundings. Her suspicion that this was a place Rachel came regularly to meet friends was strengthened by what she saw. The bench lay on a path partially screened from the main park by the trees that grew on either side of the stream that ran in front of it. She could imagine teenagers enjoying alcohol here, away from the prying eyes of people playing frisbee or sunbathing on blankets.
Forty minutes passed, during which time three dog-walkers passed her. Shortly after the last had gone by, Robin spotted somebody on the other side of the stream, walking slowly towards the bridge.
In spite of the heat of the day, the girl was wearing baggy jeans, a thick, oversized, checked shirt and bulky trainers. Dark hair fell just to just below her shoulders. Robin sat very still, as though the girl was a wild animal she might scare away with a sudden movement. Twice the girl paused, staring towards Robin, perhaps taking the measure of her, or checking that she was indeed alone. At last she crossed the bridge.
Two things struck Robin immediately as the girl moved into plain view. Firstly, she bore a marked resemblance to her aunt, Edie Ledwelclass="underline" she had the same square face and generous mouth, though Rachel’s eyes were dark and her nose was aquiline. Secondly, she was at that stage of self-consciousness that Robin remembered vividly, when a girl’s body stopped being a mere vehicle for sensory pain and pleasure, and became something that attracted lascivious scrutiny and judgement. As she walked towards the bench she folded her arms self-protectively, staring at Robin and clearly uncertain whether Robin was indeed the person she was meeting.
‘Rachel?’ said Robin, standing up with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I’m Robin, otherwise known as Stop Anomie.’
She held out her hand. Rachel unfolded her arms to shake it, and Robin felt the dampness of the girl’s palm.
‘Your directions were great,’ said Robin, sitting back down on Janet Martin’s bench. ‘I love this park. D’you know the names on all the benches?’
‘No,’ said Rachel, ‘only this one.’