‘And why would The Halvening want the hard drive of Bhardwaj’s computer? Again, they’re just saddling themselves with an incriminating bit of evidence. It would’ve been too late to repair the damage, if they thought he’d been sending out emails saying he thinks he’s identified them as terrorists. But if the killer was Anomie, the disappearance of the hard drive makes sense. They were trying to make sure nobody linked Morehouse to Bhardwaj. At a bare minimum, that hard drive would have shown that Bhardwaj was the one coding the game. Let’s not forget, the police haven’t got a shred of hard evidence Vikas had found out the Peach brothers’ true identities, but we know he knew Anomie’s.’
‘But—’
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, Vikas became convinced Anomie was behind the attacks on Edie, Josh and Oliver Peach. What if Anomie suspected Vikas was about to contact the authorities?’
‘But we’ve got no proof that happened either.’
‘Can you explain the ice-cold way Anomie told you that Morehouse had left last night? Anomie knows Vikas has been murdered, it’s been all over the news. Where’s the shock and grief? They were supposedly friends. D’you think the way Anomie spoke about Morehouse was natural, if they’d had nothing to do with his murder?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t.’
They both drank, thinking. Beside them, the two teenagers in the family group were both typing onto their phones, ignoring their parents. Finally, Robin said,
‘D’you think it’s worth doing some research on Lepine’s Disciple?’
‘I had a look at his account a while back. I doubt it’ll give us much. He’s just an anonymous little scrote who doesn’t like women.’
‘But in the interests of thoroughness—’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike with a sigh, ‘if you want to have a look, carry on. Personally, I think we’re far more likely to get what we need from Paperwhite than Lepine’s Disciple. There’s got to be a chance Morehouse told her who Anomie is. I’m going to tackle Yasmin tonight. Visit her at home, take her by surprise. If she’s still got a photo of Paperwhite it’ll give us a head start on finding her.’
A barman now brought them two veggie burgers.
‘Why haven’t you got chips?’ Strike asked, looking at Robin’s plate.
‘Solidarity,’ she said, smiling.
‘But I could’ve nicked some,’ sighed Strike, picking up his knife and fork.
91
Her hair stood back on either side
A face bereft of loveliness.
It had no envy now to hide
What once no man on earth could guess.
It formed the thorny aureole
Of hard unsanctified distress.
Strike’s leg was giving him far more trouble than he wanted to admit to Robin. Another bout of spasms had woken him that morning, and hot pain shot through his hamstring every time he stepped on his prosthesis, reminding him that it would prefer to carry less weight and, ideally, none at all.
If he’d had a choice, he’d have stayed at the Z Hotel for another night and rested up, but as Murphy had said they were safe to go home, and mindful of the accountant’s jaundiced view of what constituted business expenses, Strike returned to the hotel with Robin only to pack his things and carry them back to his attic flat on Denmark Street.
The climb up the three flights of stairs added substantially to the pain in his stump. An afternoon nap prior to visiting Yasmin Weatherhead in Croydon was rendered impossible by the loud noises of the builders in the office below. Strike therefore sat at his small kitchen table, leg elevated on a second chair, and ordered a new desk, filing cabinet, PC, computer chair and sofa online, to be delivered in a few days’ time.
The news of The Halvening arrests had hit the news a couple of hours after he’d arrived home. Strike whiled away the rest of the afternoon vaping and drinking coffee while refreshing various news sites. Unsurprisingly, most news reports led with the news that the two sons of Ian Peach, tech multimillionaire and once aspiring Mayor of London, had been led in handcuffs out of his Bishop’s Avenue house, which had Grecian columns and a brand-new Maserati parked in the drive. Pictures of Uruz, with his 88 tattoo and slick blond hair; skinheaded Thurisaz, his rune prominent on his Adam’s apple; Ben-the-bombmaker, whose unsmiling photograph revealed a wall-eyed glare; and Wally Cardew, described in the caption of his picture as a ‘well-known YouTuber’, were among those relegated to the foot of the story. Nineteen young men were now in custody, most of them from London, although arrests had also been made in Manchester, Newcastle and Dundee. Strike well understood the satisfaction Ryan Murphy and Angela Darwish must be experiencing; he’d known it himself, at the conclusion of cases, and he envied them the sense of resolution.
At five o’clock, Strike set out for Croydon, and a little over an hour later was to be seen limping along Lower Addiscombe Road, the sleepy residential street where Robin had sat in the Saucy Sausage café, watching the front of the Weatherheads’ house.
Strike decided to observe the Weatherhead home for a while before knocking on the door. While his stump didn’t much appreciate being asked to support him while loitering outside the row of closed shops opposite for forty minutes, he felt justified in his decision when he at last spotted blonde Yasmin walking up the street, typing on her phone as she went, a large messenger bag slung over her shoulder and wearing the same long black cardigan she’d sported in the photographs Robin had sent him weeks before. Barely raising her eyes from her phone, she turned automatically towards the front door of the family house and disappeared inside.
Strike waited five minutes, then crossed the road and rang the doorbell. After a short wait, the door opened and Yasmin stood there, still holding her mobile and looking mildly surprised to see a stranger on the doormat.
‘Evening,’ said Strike. ‘Yasmin Weatherhead?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking puzzled.
‘My name’s Cormoran Strike. I’m a private detective. I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions.’
The look of mild confusion on Yasmin’s round, flat face turned instantly to fear.
‘Shouldn’t take long,’ said Strike. ‘Just a couple of questions. Phillip Ormond knows me and can vouch for me.’
An older woman now appeared in the hallway behind Yasmin. She had thick dark grey hair and the same flat face as her daughter.
‘Who’s this?’
‘He’s just – just someone who wants to ask me some questions,’ said Yasmin.
‘What about?’ said Mrs Weatherhead, blinking up at Strike with sheep-like eyes.
‘About my book,’ Yasmin lied. ‘I – all right, come in,’ she added, to Strike. ‘It won’t take long,’ she assured her mother.
Strike suspected that, like Inigo Upcott, Yasmin’s need to know why he wanted to talk to her outweighed her very obvious fear. She led him into a front room overlooking the street and closed the door firmly on her mother.
The space had an air of having been recently redecorated: the pristine light blue carpet was giving off a rubbery smell of newness and the cream leather sofa and chairs looked as though they’d barely been sat on. The large flatscreen television dominated the room. A cluster of photographs displayed on a side table mostly featured the same two little dark-haired girls, who Strike guessed, given the lack of resemblance to Yasmin, were her nieces.