She opened the book, showing viewers the pictures.
‘See? He did these incredible silhouettes against marbled paper. Aren’t they amazing?’
‘OK,’ said Josh again, ‘movin’ on. Got anuvver ques-question ’ere.’
He was fighting laughter again.
‘“D’you – d’you fink there’ll ever be a movie made of the—”’
He and Edie dissolved again into uproarious laughter.
‘—of the – of The Ink Black ’Eart? Yeah… no, in all ’onesty… that’ll never ’appen. Jesus, can you imagine? A movie of…’
‘Yeah, no,’ said Edie, dabbing at her eyes, ‘I can’t somehow…’
‘Smugliks an’ mukfluks would not wanna see that movie,’ said Josh.
‘So, um, is that all the questions?’ asked Edie.
‘There’s one more. “Are you guys boyfriend and girlfriend?”’
Still out of breath from laughing, they contemplated each other in their almost-matching shirts, arms touching, both leaning back against the wall covered in pictures.
‘Um…’ said Edie.
‘Are we comf’table puttin’ that out there?’ Josh asked her.
‘Yeah, good point. What if the paparazzi come calling?’
‘It’s a concern,’ said Josh. He turned to look at the camera. ‘We request privacy at this difficult time.’
‘That’s what you say when you split up,’ said Edie, ‘not when you say you’re together.’
‘Ah, sorry,’ said Josh. ‘I didn’t read the ’ole ’Andbook for Slebs, jus’ the last page.’
‘How does it end?’
‘Well, no spoilers, but badly.’
‘Drink and drugs?’
‘No, that’s now.’
Edie and Tim laughed. Edie turned back to the camera.
‘If any kids are watching, we’re joking.’
Behind her back, Josh mouthed ‘We’re not’.
The video ended.
Robin stared at the frozen image for a few seconds – Josh Blay and his beautiful, wide smile, Edie beaming as she leaned into him, amber eyes bright – then, in spite of her best efforts, she put her face in her hands, and wept.
PART TWO
The arteries undergo enormous ramification in their course throughout the body,
and end in very minute vessels, called arterioles, which in their turn open
into a close-meshed network of microscopic vessels, termed capillaries.
15
Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying
In fairy rings around the echoing hall?
A full month had passed since Edie Ledwell had been found dead in Highgate Cemetery, but the newspapers had reported no new leads. Robin, who checked regularly for updates, knew Josh Blay remained hospitalised, his condition no longer critical but serious. Otherwise, there was a dearth of information.
‘Maybe Blay didn’t see the attacker?’ Robin wondered aloud to Strike one night in Sloane Square, where the latter had arrived to take over surveillance of Fingers. Their target, who lived on the third floor of a large building with a department store at its base, still hadn’t gone anywhere near South Audley Street or shown any sign of trying to dispose of the casket or the sculpture that had vanished from his stepfather’s house. To Robin, it beggared belief that a young man who could afford to live in the heart of Belgravia would have felt the need to steal from his stepfather, but a few years tracking the lives of the super-rich had taught her that these things were all relative. Perhaps, to Fingers, this was the equivalent of sneaking a tenner out of a parent’s wallet.
‘If Blay was tasered first, then attacked from behind, I’d doubt he saw much at all,’ said Strike. ‘Has our friend been outside at all today?’ he added, looking up at the balconied windows behind which Fingers lived.
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘But he had a heavy night last night. Barclay says he didn’t get home till four.’
‘Any news on your flat?’ asked Strike, lighting a cigarette.
‘I’m still trying to make up my mind how much it’s worth to me,’ said Robin, whose first offer had been rejected. ‘I went to see a place in Tower Hamlets last night. It was the kind of place Dr Crippen would have felt at home in.’
Her feet were numb with cold, so she bade Strike goodnight shortly afterwards, leaving him to lean up against a conveniently positioned tree, the chilly air pinching his fingers as he smoked. Resigned to remaining in Sloane Square until at least 2 a.m., when it was usually safe to assume the young man was asleep, Strike’s thoughts lingered briefly on Robin, then drifted to another couple of niggling personal dilemmas.
The first concerned Madeline, who’d called the previous evening to invite him to accompany her to the book launch of a well-known novelist friend. Strike could have pretended that he had to work that night, but instead had chosen to be honest and say that he had no desire to go anywhere, ever, that might result in his picture being in the paper.
Though there’d been no argument, he could tell from Madeline’s tone that his refusal had gone down poorly and the subsequent discussion had led to Strike laying out what he saw as rules of engagement in fairly stark terms. He couldn’t, he told her, work as a private detective while also appearing in the society pages of Tatler, drinking champagne with the literati of London.
‘You’ve already been in Tatler,’ said Madeline. ‘Your agency was listed in their “25 Numbers You Never Knew You Needed”.’
Strike hadn’t been aware of this, though he supposed it might account for a slight recent increase in calls to the agency concerning the tracking of well-heeled spouses.
‘I can’t afford to become recognisable,’ said Strike.
‘Your picture’s already been in the papers, though.’
‘Always bearded and never by choice.’
‘Why can’t you come to the launch but tell them you don’t want to be photographed?’
‘I’d rather make sure of it by not turning up at the kinds of events where people go to be seen.’
‘So what were you doing in Annabel’s?’
‘I was working,’ said Strike, who hadn’t previously admitted that he’d lied on the night they met.
‘Were you?’ said Madeline, distracted. ‘Ohmigod – who were you investigating?’
‘That’s confidential. Look, I can’t squire you to events where there are press. It’ll ruin my business. I’m sorry, but there it is.’
‘OK, fine,’ she said, but there was a note in her voice that told him it wasn’t fine, not really.
The phone call had left Strike with an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. His relationship with Charlotte seemed to have been a protracted battle over what kind of joint life they wanted to lead. Ultimately, there’d been no reconciling Strike’s preference for a vocation that meant long hours and, at least in the beginning, very little money with Charlotte’s desire to continue enjoying the milieu into which, after all, she’d been born: one of ease, celebrity and wealth.
With the possible exception of his friends Nick and Ilsa, Strike had never witnessed a relationship that didn’t involve compromises he personally would have resisted. This, he supposed, was the selfishness of which Charlotte had constantly accused him. Night buses rattled past and Strike’s cigarette smoke hung heavily in the chilly air as he cast his mind back to the time in Nightjar when Madeline had tried to turn her camera on both of them and wondered for the first time whether, for her, part of his attraction was his newsworthiness. It was an unpleasant thought. There being nothing to be gained from this unsatisfactory line of speculation, he turned his thoughts instead to the second of his personal dilemmas.