‘But Charlie Hebdo – that was entirely different. The Ink Black Heart isn’t a political cartoon, there was nothing about religion…’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Maybe you’re right. You ready to go? I’ll walk down with you, I’m going to get a takeaway.’
If Robin hadn’t been pondering the question of why the stabbing of two animators could have possibly interested MI5, she might have asked herself why Strike was taking a small rucksack into Chinatown to pick up his takeaway, but she was so preoccupied, his lie went unchallenged.
13
But when thy friends are in distress,
Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’er the less…
Madeline and her son, Henry, lived in a mews house in Eccleston Square, Pimlico. Henry’s father lived a few streets away with his wife and their three children. He and Madeline had deliberately chosen to move into the same area so their son could come and go easily between the two houses. Henry seemed to be on good terms with both his stepmother and his half-siblings. To Strike, who’d been raised in conditions of insecurity and chaos, it all felt very grown-up and civilised.
He walked the short distance from Victoria Station with his collar turned up against the continuing rain, smoking while he still had the chance, because Madeline was a non-smoker and preferred her pristine house to remain cigarette-free. The subtle recalibration he always needed to perform when moving from work to a date with Madeline was proving harder than usual this evening. One reason he had no objection to Madeline’s persistent lateness was because it allowed him extra time to summon the energy needed to meet her always keyed-up demeanour on first contact. Tonight, though, his thoughts remained with Robin and with the oddly vivid picture she’d painted for the police, of the now-dead animator with her bruised neck and old boots. If he were honest with himself, he’d rather still be at the office, speculating about the stabbings with Robin over a Chinese takeaway than heading towards Madeline’s.
Best, then, not to be honest with himself.
It was Valentine’s Day tomorrow. Strike had arranged for a showy spray of orchids to be delivered to Madeline in the morning and was carrying a card for her in his rucksack. These were the things you did for the woman you were sleeping with if you wanted to keep sleeping with her, and Strike was keen to keep sleeping with Madeline, for reasons both obvious and barely acknowledged.
The rapid thumps of teenage feet on the stairs followed Strike’s ring on the doorbell, and Henry opened the door. He was a good-looking boy with Madeline’s red-gold hair, which he wore as long and floppy as Westminster School would permit. Strike remembered being the age Henry was now: the indignity of angry pimples burgeoning on his hairless chin, being unable to find trousers long enough in the leg but small enough in the waist (a problem that, for Strike, had long since vanished), feeling uncoordinated and clumsy and full of a range of desperate and unfulfilled desires that the teenaged Strike had partly sublimated in the boxing ring.
‘Evening,’ said Strike.
‘Hi,’ said Henry, unsmiling, and he turned immediately to run back upstairs. Strike surmised that he’d been told to answer the door, rather than done it of his own accord.
The detective stepped inside, wiped his feet, took off his overcoat and hung it up beside the front door, then proceeded upstairs at a far slower pace than Henry, making liberal use of the banister. He arrived in the open-plan living area to find Madeline sitting on the sofa, pencil in hand, head bowed over an assortment of gemstones that were lying on a large piece of white paper spread out on the coffee table. A half-empty bottle of wine stood next to the paper, the glass beside it full.
‘Sorry, babes, d’you mind if I just finish this?’ said Madeline anxiously.
‘’Course not,’ said Strike, setting his rucksack down on a leather chair.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, frowning at the design she was working on, ‘I just had an idea and I want to follow it through before I lose it. Henry’ll get you a drink – Hen, get Cormoran a drink – Hen!’ she bellowed, because Henry had just put earphones in and was sitting back down at the desk in the corner, which had a large PC on it.
‘What?’
‘Get – Cormoran – a – drink!’
Henry just prevented himself from throwing down the headphones. Strike would have offered to get the drink himself, but he guessed that would have been making himself a little too at home in the teenager’s eyes.
‘What d’you want?’ Henry grunted at the detective as he passed him.
‘Beer would be great.’
Henry strode off towards the kitchen, his fringe flopping over his eyes. Wanting to give Madeline peace and space, Strike followed her son.
The house was largely white: white walls, white ceilings, a white carpet in Madeline’s bedroom, stripped floorboards everywhere else, the other furnishings almost all silvery grey. Madeline had told Strike she found it restful, after hours staring at vibrant gemstones in the workshop, or else presiding over her eclectically decorated Bond Street shop, to spend evenings in a serene, monochrome space. Her house in the country, she’d told him, was far busier and more colourful in style: they should go there, one weekend, and Strike – in the spirit of giving a real relationship a chance – had agreed.
Henry had already opened the enormous Smeg fridge-freezer when Strike arrived in the minimalist kitchen.
‘There’s Heineken or Peroni.’
‘Heineken, please,’ said Strike. ‘Can I ask you something, Henry?’
‘What?’ said Henry, his tone suspicious. He was a full foot shorter than the detective and appeared to resent having to look up at him.
‘Your mother told me you used to watch The Ink Black Heart.’
‘Yeah,’ said Henry, still sounding suspicious as he opened drawers, looking for a bottle-opener.
‘I’ve never seen it. What’s it about?’
‘Dunno,’ said Henry with an irritable half-shrug. ‘What goes on in a cemetery after dark.’
He opened and shut another drawer and then, slightly to Strike’s surprise, volunteered more information.
‘It went off. It used to be funnier. They sold out.’
‘Who did?’
‘The people who made it.’
‘The two who were stabbed yesterday?’
‘What?’ said Henry, looking round at Strike.
‘The two people who created it were stabbed in Highgate Cemetery yesterday afternoon. The police have just released their names.’
‘Ledwell and Blay?’ said Henry. ‘Stabbed in Highgate Cemetery?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘She’s dead. He’s critical.’
‘Fuck,’ said Henry, then, catching himself, he said, ‘I mean—’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Fuck’s about right.’
Something adjacent to a smile flickered briefly on Henry’s face. He’d found a bottle-opener. After prising off the cap he said,
‘D’you want a glass?’
‘I’m good with the bottle,’ said Strike, and Henry passed it to him.
‘Are you investigating it?’ asked Henry, looking sideways at Strike.
‘The stabbings? No.’
‘Who do they think did it?’
‘Don’t think they know yet.’ Strike took a swig of beer. ‘There’s a character called Drek in the cartoon, isn’t there?’