‘I’m starting to think we should have you on retainer,’ said Murphy.
Strike’s third call was to Midge, because he needed to tell her that, as of twelve hours ago, most of the Anomie suspects they’d previously ruled out were now back in.
‘Fook,’ said Midge. ‘So that’s – what? – half a dozen people we’ve got to watch? And the only way we can rule them out is by Anomie being on Twitter when they aren’t?’
‘It isn’t half a dozen,’ Strike said, well aware that this was cold comfort. ‘We’ve been warned away from Pez Pierce by the CID, so take your pick: Kea Niven in King’s Lynn or Tim Ashcroft in Colchester.’
‘What about Wally Cardew?’
‘He’s definitely out,’ said Strike. ‘He’s been trying to help The Halvening identify Anomie. It can’t be him.’
‘What if he’s bullshitting?’
‘I don’t think he is,’ said Strike, who’d imagined that his imminent phone call to Robin was going to be the most stressful of the day, and wasn’t enjoying this amount of pushback. He’d slept badly, partly due to the pain in his stump but also because of the tender lump on the back of his head, caused by falling over backwards into the road following Madeline’s kick.
‘What about the Upcott kid?’ said Midge.
‘I can’t remember when we ruled him out,’ said Strike, who hadn’t yet gone back through the case file.
‘It was after Comic Con, because when Barclay called to tell me not to bother taking over surveillance on him I was reading about Robin jumping on the train tracks.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike. ‘OK, well, if you want, you can go to Hampstead. I don’t care, I just want to know we’re keeping tabs on one suspect today.’
‘What about Phillip Ormond? We never ruled him out as Anomie. Never watched him, even.’
‘He doesn’t fit our profile.’
‘He fits it better than the Upcott boy. He’s a computing teacher.’
‘Anomie was active before Ormond ever met Edie. Where would Ormond have got all the personal stuff on her?’
‘I had a case up in Manchester where a husband made three fake profiles on Facebook and started really fooking with his wife, harassing her, trying to see if she were playing around…’
Strike chose to let Midge get the story out of her system, but he was barely listening. When at last she’d finished, he said,
‘Look, we’ve got a manpower problem. All I care about is that we keep watching one suspect, so take your pick: Tim Ashcroft, Kea Niven or Gus Upcott.’
Midge chose Gus, a decision Strike was certain she’d taken because she preferred not to have to drive out to King’s Lynn or Colchester, and rang off.
Strike drained his mug of heavily sugared mahogany-coloured tea, then phoned Barclay and asked him to fly up to Scotland to locate and interview Nicole Crystal.
‘I’ll get a picture to you this morning. She attends Glasgow School of Art, but term’s ended, so I’d imagine she’ll be back at her parents’ house in Bearsden, which—’
‘Aye, I know where it is,’ said Barclay. ‘Posh end o’ Glasgow. I’m asking her if she knows who Anomie is, presumably?’
‘Yeah, but tread carefully. Her online boyfriend’s been murdered, she almost certainly knows it and she’s probably bloody scared. Tell her we know she’s Paperwhite in Drek’s Game, give her plenty of reassurance she’s done nothing wrong, and then find out as much as you can.’
To his relief, Barclay took the assignment without complaint and rang off.
Now, bracing himself, Strike called Robin.
‘Hi,’ she said, answering immediately and sounding cold. ‘I’ve read your email.’
He’d sent the email in question at one o’clock that morning, after dragging himself upstairs and letting himself into his attic flat. Once there, he’d removed his shoes, trousers and prosthesis to examine his stump, which began spasming again as soon as he lifted it. There was an angry red puncture mark where Madeline’s stiletto had hit him, his hamstring was in searing pain, his knee was puffy and the skin at the end of his stump inflamed, all of which had forced him to a couple of unwelcome conclusions.
Firstly, and even though he feared advice and treatment that would put him out of action, the time had come to seek medical assistance. Secondly, as he’d be unable to accompany Robin anywhere for at least the next couple of days, and as all the other subcontractors were busy – Dev still tailing Fingers’ mother from restaurant to bar in the hope of striking up a conversation about Fabergé or Greek antiquities – Strike wanted Robin out of harm’s way.
‘All agreed, then?’ said Strike, the muscles in his stump now twitching again, even though he had it elevated. ‘You keep looking into Lepine’s Disciple—’
‘Which you think is pointless,’ said Robin.
‘No, I agreed we should look at him, in the interests of thoroughness.’
‘I know what you’re doing, Strike,’ said Robin. ‘I’m not stupid. We’re supposed to be covering multiple suspects, but you want me shut away in a hotel room watching Twitter.’
‘You had a death threat,’ said Strike, who was rapidly reaching the limit of his patience. ‘They know your address and what you look like, and your name was on that fucking bomb, same as mine.’
‘Then why aren’t you hiding away in some bloody—?’
‘Because I’ve got to go to hospital,’ he snarled.
‘What?’ said Robin sharply. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘My fucking leg got blown off,’ said Strike.
‘Oh shit, is it really bad? Well, then, let me—’
‘No, you’re not fucking coming with me,’ he said, so tense he was barely refraining from shouting. ‘Can you please just stay put, so I’ve got one less thing to fucking worry about?’
‘Fine,’ snapped Robin, but after a short pause she added, ‘But could you call me when you can, and let me know how you are?’
Strike agreed to do so, hung up and then, using chair backs, the door handle and his chest of drawers for balance, hopped into his bedroom to get dressed.
Having no illusions about the likelihood of getting an appointment with his specialist at such short notice, Strike had decided to present himself at UCH Accident and Emergency and wait his turn. He planned to say that he’d fallen the previous night and was now in a lot of pain, which was perfectly true, although, of course, it omitted mention of the fact that he’d been in agony even before he fell, and also of the months of neglect of his stump that had brought him to this point. He didn’t doubt that a doctor would see right through the story, but he hardly cared: all he wanted was a large bottle of heavy-duty prescription painkillers, which would enable him to continue working.
Fifty minutes later, as he was travelling by taxi, his crutches propped beside him and his right trouser leg pinned up, his mobile rang.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said a gruff male voice over a slightly crackling line, ‘Grant Ledwell here.’
‘Ah, Grant,’ said Strike, ‘thanks for getting back to me. Wondered whether we could have a face-to-face? Just to get you caught up on recent developments?’ he added, untruthfully.
‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ said Grant, sounding enthusiastic. ‘I’m in Oman currently, but I’m back Monday. It’d have to be evening again. Would nine be too late? Could you come to us?’
Strike, who was keen to interview the Ledwells in their own home, said both time and place suited him perfectly.
‘Great, because Heather won’t want me going out, so soon after I get back from Oman, but she’ll want news of Anomie. Hasn’t liked me going away and leaving her alone in the house.’