‘Scared? Scared of what?’ asked Strike.
‘Of the KGB,’ said Barclay.
‘There isn’t any KGB any more,’ said Robin. ‘And also: what the hell?’
‘From what I could hear,’ said Barclay, ‘Fingers has been tellin’ her his stepfather’s under surveillance by the Russian government, so he’s had her ferretin’ all the hidden cameras oot and givin’ them to him, because he says his mam mustn’t be worried, because she’s ill. But,’ said Barclay, ‘Midge knows a bit more aboot that.’
‘Yeah. Ill, my arse,’ said Midge succinctly. ‘The mother’s here in London. Arrived two days ago. I tailed her and Fingers yesterday and by a bloody good stroke of luck I got a seat beside the pair of them at the champagne and caviar bar in Harrods.’
‘I’ll look out for that in your monthly expenses,’ said Strike.
‘If it’s any consolation, it were horrible,’ said Midge. ‘I’ve never had caviar before.’
‘There wasn’t a cheaper option?’
‘Fooking hell, Strike, I was sitting at a caviar bar – what were I going to do, ask if they could do me a pork pie?’
Robin laughed.
‘Anyway,’ said Midge, ‘I heard their whole conversation. She’s planning a divorce. If you ask me, Fingers has been nicking stuff because he wants to get as much out of that house as he can before the locks change.’
‘Or,’ said Strike, ‘she’s had him nicking stuff she fancies keeping rather than fighting for in court – presumably in the hope that the housekeeper would be blamed.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Midge. ‘Fingers and his mum seem very cosy.’
‘OK, well, that’s excellent work from both of you. We stay on Fingers and maybe his mother too while she’s here. How old is she?’
‘Dunno… mid- to late forties?’ said Midge. ‘Might look younger if it were dark. She’s gorra face full of fillers. Under a bright light she looks like she’s had anaphylactic shock.’
‘I’m just wondering,’ said Strike, ‘whether, as she’s planning a divorce… Has she been pretty social since she hit London?’
‘She eats every meal out,’ said Midge. ‘Night before last she went to a bar in Knightsbridge with a couple of women who look just like her.’
Strike’s gaze moved speculatively to Dev, who said,
‘What?’
‘Might be worth a good-looking art dealer chatting her up. See whether she asks him to value or sell the stuff Fingers nicked.’
‘I know fuck-all about art,’ said Dev.
‘You only need to specialise in whatever it is we know is gone from the house,’ said Strike.
‘Why’m I no’ being picked for this job?’ said Barclay, deadpan.
‘Know a lot about art, do you?’ asked Strike.
‘Did a City an’ Guilds in Fabergé an’ welding.’
Even Pat laughed.
Once their sandwiches had arrived, Strike said,
‘So: Anomie.’
The blank faces of the subcontractors told him that they weren’t particularly enthused about the new subject.
‘We’ve got three strong candidates left,’ said Strike. ‘It’s really going to be legwork until we’ve ruled someone else out.’
‘It could take years at this rate,’ said Midge.
‘Robin’s close to getting into the moderator channel in the game,’ said Strike. ‘I think her getting in there’s going to be key to breaking the case.’
Strike couldn’t blame the subcontractors for looking sceptical. The agency had five investigators, one of whom was currently out of commission because she was trying to pass Anomie’s test, and they were supposed to be running surveillance on six people.
‘Look,’ said Strike, ‘I know we’re stretched, but Ross should be off our books tonight.’
‘You’re going to see him?’ asked Robin.
‘Yep,’ said Strike without elaboration. As he didn’t want a whole-team discussion about Ross, his long entanglement with Charlotte or his guilt about having added the case to their workload in the first place, he turned the conversation back to Anomie, allocating each subcontractor a suspect on whom they’d resume surveillance that afternoon.
87
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red;
All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
At half-past eight that evening, by which time Jago Ross had usually returned from work, Strike arrived in Kensington and walked to the huge, solid-looking red-brick block with white stone facings inside which Jago had an apartment. Sure enough, all the second-floor lights were on, so Strike rang the bell beside the front door, which was partly made of glass and through which could be glimpsed a luxurious lobby. A porter wearing black livery answered when Strike rang, but didn’t admit him.
‘Here to see Jago Ross,’ said Strike. ‘Cormoran Strike.’
‘I’ll ring upstairs, sir,’ said the porter, who spoke in the hushed tones of an undertaker, and closed the front door gently in Strike’s face. The detective, who was confident that Ross would see him, if only to have a chance to be offensive and threatening in person, waited without undue concern, and sure enough the porter returned after a couple of minutes, opened the door and admitted the detective.
‘Second floor, flat 2B,’ said the porter, still in the hushed, unctuous voice of one offering condolences to an important dignitary. ‘Lift straight ahead.’
As Strike could plainly see this, he didn’t consider the information worth a tip, so he walked across the lobby, which was carpeted in royal blue, and pressed the brass button beside the lift doors, which slid open to reveal a mahogany-panelled interior complete with a bevelled mirror in a gilt frame.
When the doors reopened, Strike found himself on the second-floor landing, which was furnished with more royal blue carpet, fresh lilies standing on a table, and three mahogany doors to separate apartments. The name ROSS was engraved on a small metal plaque on the middle door, so Strike rang another brass doorbell and waited.
It took Ross nearly a minute to answer. He was as tall as Strike, though much thinner, and looked, as he’d always looked, like an Arctic fox, with his white hair, narrow face and bright blue eyes. Still in his business suit, he’d loosened his dark blue tie, and held a crystal tumbler of what looked like whisky. He stood back, his expression impassive, to allow Strike to enter the hall, then closed the apartment door and walked silently past his visitor into what appeared to be a drawing room. Strike followed.
Strike knew the flat was owned by Ross’s parents and the decor was almost parodically ‘old money’, from the slightly faded but still lustrous brocade curtains to the antique chandelier and Aubusson carpet. Dark oil paintings of dogs, horses and what Strike assumed were ancestors covered the walls. Prominent among the silver-framed photographs on the table behind the sofa was a picture of the young Ross wearing the white tie and black tailcoat of Eton.
Ross seemed bent on making Strike speak first, to which the latter had no particular objection – indeed, he was keen to get this over with as quickly as possible – but before he could start, he heard footsteps.
Charlotte walked out of a side room, wearing black stilettos and a clinging black dress. She looked as though she’d been crying, but her expression on seeing Strike was simply astonished.
‘Corm,’ she said. ‘What—?’
‘And the Oscar for best actress…’ said Jago from one of the sofas, his arm stretched along its back, ostentatiously at ease.
‘I didn’t know he was coming!’ Charlotte fired at her husband.