‘What’s the fuckin’ point?’ asked Barclay.
‘Anomie might tweet,’ said Strike. ‘That’s all we’ve got right now.’
The detective then called Ryan Murphy, only to be told he was in a meeting and would call back, so Strike walked up to Denmark Street for the first time since the bombing to check on the progress of the builders and see what could be salvaged from the wreckage.
Robin was in Sloane Square again, watching Fingers’ windows, when Strike called her an hour later. He’d agreed to her undertaking daytime surveillance in the light of their current lack of manpower, but hadn’t been happy about it.
‘How’s the office looking?’ she asked.
‘Better than I expected. The walls and ceiling have been replastered and they’ve fitted a new door on the inside office. We’ll need some new furniture, and a new PC and desk for Pat. There’s still no glass in the outer door, it’s boarded over. My flat’s OK now they’ve fixed the office ceiling.
‘But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve just spoken to Murphy. They’ve released Ormond without charge.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin. ‘Did you tell him about Paperwhite?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Can’t say he seemed overly excited, but he still wants to see us both at New Scotland Yard as soon as possible.’
‘What?’ said Robin. ‘Why?’
‘He’s being quite cryptic. Says there’s something we can help them with, and something they might be able to help us with. I’ve called Midge, she’ll take over from you.’
‘Strike, she hasn’t had a day off in weeks.’
‘I’ve promised her a long weekend. Meet you at the front of the building,’ said Strike, and rang off.
So, having handed over to Midge, Robin took a taxi to New Scotland Yard, an enormous pale grey building facing the Thames. She found Strike smoking a short distance from the main doors.
‘This is all a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Robin said as she reached him.
‘It is,’ agreed Strike, grinding out his stub beneath his false foot. ‘Murphy didn’t sound like a man who’s lost his main suspect. He actually sounded pretty happy about something. I said I’d call him when we arrived.’
Murphy came to collect them in person, and a short lift ride later they found themselves in a small room furnished with a round table and several metal-legged chairs. Already present was Angela Darwish, who shook hands with both Strike and Robin on arrival. A sleek black box sat on the table, which Strike recognised as a surveillance recorder.
The room’s single window looked out on the river, which today was a blinding mass of white sparkles, and admitted so much unfiltered sunshine that the plastic seats drawn up around the table were almost uncomfortably hot. Having closed the door and joined them at the table, Murphy said, smiling,
‘You’re here because of a cat.’
‘A cat?’ repeated Robin.
‘Yep. I’m about to play you something we recorded a week ago, courtesy of a couple of listening devices in an old lady’s flat.’
‘What are you, the council?’ Strike asked Angela Darwish. ‘Rentokil?’
Angela smiled, but didn’t answer. Murphy pressed a button on the black box.
They heard soft thuds that sounded to Strike like footsteps on carpet, as though someone was pacing. Then a voice spoke, and within a few words Strike recognised it as that of Wally Cardew.
‘Uruz?’
A short pause, then,
‘Yeah, I got in, but it weren’t no good… It took me about five fuckin’ goes to remember me password… Yeah… but it’s all changed, I couldn’t see none of the people I used to talk to… Well, I weren’t in there that long, because, like, I only joined it after I got sacked, like, to try and whip up a bit of support… Ha ha, yeah… No, it’s shit, anyway… yeah, they’ve got a new mod, so I asked ’im a couple of questions, but nuffing. Then Anomie fuckin’ turned up and asked me what I was doin’ back in there, suspicious, like, and ’e started asking a ton of fuckin’ questions, and I couldn’t remember what I’d told ’im about meself back then, because obviously I was pretending to be some random shit-muncher, didn’t want anyone knowing I was in the game bigging meself up… Ha ha, yeah, exactly… But I got one of me answers wrong, and the fucker fuckin’ banned me… Yeah… No, man, I know that… I wanna ’elp, I’ll do whatever… Yeah, OK… Yeah… Tell ’im I still wanna ’elp, though… Tell ’im I’m ready to take the meeting wiv ’is old man any time… Yeah, I know… Will do… OK, laters.’
Murphy pressed pause.
‘Cardew’s been trying to find out who Anomie is, inside Drek’s Game,’ said Strike.
‘Bang on,’ said Murphy. ‘You’ll notice they use their code-names whenever they speak to each other by phone, but we identified Uruz a while back. Uruz was round at Thurisaz’s house when we picked him up.’
‘Thurisaz is Jamie Kettle,’ Darwish told Strike, ‘the man you—’
‘Punched,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, I remember. I don’t do it often. I mean, I can keep track of them.’
Darwish actually laughed.
‘We didn’t have anything on Uruz at the time,’ said Murphy, ‘but his tattoos gave us a good steer on what his politics might be.’
‘You’d think men trying to operate in the shadows might think twice about tattooing swastikas all over themselves,’ commented Strike.
‘We think,’ said Darwish, ‘Uruz and Thurisaz were picked for their brawn, not their brains.’
‘Anyway, we ID-ed Uruz pretty quickly,’ said Murphy. ‘He’s the one who was casing your flat,’ he told Robin, ‘and he gets careless when he’s had a pint or seven. We had a plainclothes guy with him while he was telling his mates about a well-funded far-right web channel that’s about to start up. Very pleased with himself about having this insider information, little Uruz. He said a multi-millionaire was behind the project, and there’d be a celebrity on it who couldn’t speak freely on YouTube…’
‘The multi-millionaire wouldn’t happen to be Ian Peach, would it?’
‘I couldn’t comment,’ said Murphy, with the ghost of a wink. ‘So: this is a second recording, which we got yesterday afternoon.’
He pressed the button again. This time, Wally’s excited voice echoed slightly, as though he’d shut himself in a bathroom.
‘Uruz? I’ve got somefing big… Yeah. I’ve found out ’oo Anomie is… Yeah! I was finking of goin’ to see Heimdall and tell ’im in p—… Oh, right… No, I get it… Shit, are they?’
Murphy hit pause.
‘Heimdall, who’s the brains of the operation, is smart enough to know people are watching him and his father,’ said Murphy. ‘That’s why he’s using minions as runners, obviously.’
He hit play again and Wally said,
‘Well, my place is safe…’
Murphy gave a snort of amusement.
‘… Yeah, defs… No, any time tonight…’
Indistinctly, in the background of the tape, an elderly woman’s voice could be heard making an enquiry.
‘Gimme a minute, Gran,’ called Wally, who then spoke in a lower voice, ‘No, she should be out later… Yeah, OK… Yeah… See ya then.’
Strike presumed Wally had hung up before starting to sing in a low voice:
There is a road an’ it leads to Valhalla
where on’y the chosen are allowed…
Murphy pressed pause again.
‘Tune and lyrics by Skrewdriver,’ said the policeman. ‘Popular at Odinist retreats, I hear… So, this next recording was made yesterday evening. Watch out for the cat.’