‘Of course you didn’t,’ drawled Jago.
But Charlotte was looking at Strike, who saw, with profound misgivings, that she’d flushed with what looked like pleasure and hope.
‘Have I walked into a marital reunion?’ he asked, with the dual aim of dampening Charlotte’s expectations and getting them all to the point as quickly as possible.
‘No,’ said Charlotte, and in spite of her reddened eyes she gave a little laugh. ‘Jago called me round here to offer to buy my children from me. If I want to avoid being painted as a psychotic tart in court, I can walk away now with a hundred and fifty thousand, tax-free. I suppose he thinks it’ll be cheaper than taking this to trial. A hundred and forty-five for James, and five for Mary, I imagine. Or is she even worth that?’ she flung at Ross.
‘Well, not if she takes after her mother,’ said Jago, looking up at her.
‘You see how he treats me?’ Charlotte said to Strike, searching his face for some sign of pity.
‘It’s my final offer,’ Jago told his wife, ‘and I’m only making it so your kids don’t have to read the truth about their mother, once they’re old enough to read the press. Otherwise, I’m more than happy to go to trial. “They gave the kids to the father, because the mother was a real Charlotte Ross,” they’ll say, once I’ve got through with you. Apologies,’ Jago added, turning lazily to Strike. ‘I know how much this must pain you to hear.’
‘I don’t give a toss which one of you gets custody,’ said Strike. ‘I’m here to make sure my agency and I are kept out of your shitshow.’
‘That won’t be possible, sadly,’ said Ross, though he looked far from miserable. ‘Nude photos. “I’ll always love you, Corm.” Saving her life, when it would have saved me a lot of time, trouble and money if she’d just died in the loony bin—’
Charlotte seized a polished malachite sphere the size of a grapefruit from the nearest table top and threw it, aiming it at the mirror over the mantelpiece. As Strike could have predicted, it fell far short, landing with a dull thud on a pile of books heaped on the coffee table, then rolling harmlessly onto the carpet. Jago laughed. As Strike could also have predicted, Charlotte then snatched up the next-nearest object, an inlaid tortoiseshell box, and threw it at Jago, who warded it off with a swipe of the hand that deflected the box into the grate, where, with a loud crack, it broke apart.
‘That,’ he said, no longer smiling, ‘was eighteenth-century and you’re going to fucking pay for it.’
‘Oh, am I? Am I?’ shouted Charlotte.
‘Yes, you crazy bitch, you are,’ said Jago. ‘That’s ten grand off my offer. A hundred and forty, and you get to see the twins, supervised, six times a year.’
He turned back to Strike.
‘I hope you don’t think you’re the only one she’s been playing around with, though, because—’
‘You lying fucking bastard!’ screamed Charlotte. ‘I did nothing with Landon and you know it, you’re just trying to shit-stir between Corm and me!’
‘There is no “Corm and me”, Charlotte,’ Strike said. ‘There hasn’t been for five years. If you two could control yourselves for a couple of minutes, I think you’ll both want to hear what I’ve got to say, because it’s highly relevant to this conversation.’
Both seemed a little surprised at that, and before either of them could interrupt Strike went on, addressing Jago,
‘One of my subcontractors went to visit your ex-wife today. She showed her video evidence of you kicking and slapping your daughters outside your house in Kent, and in the grounds. Your ex has also seen footage of you forcing one of them to take a jump on her pony, which resulted in her serious injury. My subcontractor tells me your ex is now thinking of filing for sole custody, using the evidence my agency’s collected.’
It was impossible to know whether Ross had turned pale, because the man had always looked as though antifreeze ran in his veins rather than blood, but he’d certainly become unnaturally still.
‘I posted copies of the same films to your house this afternoon,’ he told Charlotte, who unlike Ross had now flushed pinker than ever, and looked exhilarated. ‘Needless to say, I’ve kept my own copies.
‘If my name gets mentioned in court during your divorce case,’ Strike continued, looking Ross straight in the eye, ‘I’ll send that footage straight to the tabloids and we’ll see which story they’re more interested in: a baseless claim that I had an affair with a married woman, or the aristocratic millionaire with connections to the royals who kicks the shit out of his little girls and forces accidents that break their legs because he thinks he’s untouchable.’
Strike now headed for the door before pausing.
‘Oh, and incidentally: one of your many nannies is on the verge of quitting. Obviously my agency wouldn’t covertly record a private conversation, but one of my detectives made extensive notes after chatting her up in a pub. In her opinion, you’re both unfit to be anywhere near kids. No doubt you’ve got non-disclosure agreements with her, but I’m sure the papers would bear her legal costs in return for all the gruesome details.
‘So don’t forget: I’ve got the nanny’s name and address, and the notes of her conversation. And I’ve got those videos. One call to a news desk and we’ll see whose name gets dragged through the mud. So you both think long and hard about involving me in any of your shit ever again.’
No sound followed him up the hall. The Rosses appeared to have been struck dumb. He closed the door of the flat firmly behind him.
The porter in the lobby looked surprised to see Strike again so soon and stood up to open the door for him. As Strike could have opened the door easily himself, he didn’t consider that worth a tip either, so left with a ‘goodnight’ and headed out into the darkness towards Kensington High Street, where he hoped to find a cab.
But as he approached the street a couple of minutes later, he heard the click of high heels on stone behind him, and knew exactly whose voice he was about to hear.
‘Corm – Corm!’
He turned. Charlotte walked the last few feet on her thin heels, breathless, beautiful and flushed.
‘Thank you,’ she said, reaching out to touch his arm.
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ said Strike.
‘Don’t kid a kidder, Bluey.’
She was smiling now, scanning his face for confirmation.
‘It’s the truth. I did it for myself and the older kids.’
He turned again, pulling out his cigarettes as he walked, but she ran to catch him up, grabbing his arm.
‘Corm—’
‘No,’ he said bluntly, shaking her off. ‘This wasn’t about us.’
‘You bloody liar,’ she said, half laughing.
‘I don’t lie,’ he lied.
‘Corm, slow down, I’m in heels.’
‘Charlotte,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘get this through your head. My agency was under threat. Everything I’ve worked for over the last five years would’ve gone to shit if I’d been dragged into your divorce case. I don’t want to be in the gossip columns.’
‘Yeah, I heard about you and Madeline splitting up,’ she said, half smiling, and he knew that nothing he’d just said had made any impression on her. ‘Corm, let’s go for a drink and celebrate. Your agency’s safe, I’m free of Jago—’
‘No,’ repeated Strike, turning to walk away again, but this time she grabbed his arm so tightly that dislodging her would have meant risking knocking her over as she teetered in her stilettos.
‘Please,’ she said softly, and he knew she still believed the old power she’d exerted over him for so long lingered, that beneath his anger and impatience lay the love that had survived so many ugly scenes. ‘Please. One drink. Corm, I told you when I was dying – when I was dying – they could have been my last words. I love you.’