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Morehouse: I can’t
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<Paperwhite has left the channel>
18
Well of blackness, all defiling,
Full of flattery and reviling,
Ah, what mischief hast thou wrought
Out of what was airy thought,
What beginnings and what ends,
Making and dividing friends!
Strike and Robin shared a taxi from the office to the Arts Club the following Tuesday. She noticed, but didn’t mention, that he was wearing the same Italian suit he’d worn to the Ritz on her birthday. Robin had chosen a smart but low-key black trouser suit. As they headed towards Mayfair, Strike turned off the passengers’ intercom and said to Robin,
‘I’ve been thinking about it, and we can’t tell them who Edie thought Anomie was. It isn’t a fair accusation to be bandying about if she was wrong.’
‘No, I know,’ said Robin. ‘It’ll be interesting to hear whether they agree with her, though.’
‘I went looking for Montgomery online yesterday,’ said Strike, who, unlike Robin, had had Monday off. ‘Found him on LinkedIn and Instagram. He’s working ten minutes’ walk away from our office, at a digital-effects company in Fitzrovia. He lives in Ladbroke Grove with his girlfriend. His Instagram page is full of pictures of them with their hipster friends.’
Robin looked sideways at Strike.
‘You don’t think it’s him,’ she said, more statement than question.
‘Well, if it is, he must have a very tolerant boss who doesn’t mind him tweeting regularly throughout the day. I had a quick look at Anomie’s account last night. He’s on Twitter at all hours… Maybe I’m just working off a stereotype. When you think of internet trolls, you tend to assume they haven’t got much of a life. Montgomery’s seems pretty good, from what I can see.’
Given that it lay a mere ten minutes away from the billionaire’s house in South Audley Street, Robin had expected the Arts Club to be smart, but even so the degree of grandeur came as a surprise. From the white-jacketed waiters and the marble floors, to the oyster bar and extravagant modern chandeliers, the place gave the Ritz a run for its money. Scruffy, ink-stained Edie Ledwell would have been thoroughly out of place here; indeed, the clientele seemed to consist exclusively of middle-aged and prosperous-looking men in suits. Robin’s outfit was almost identical to the one worn by the pretty young woman who greeted them at the door, then led them upstairs to the private dining room where, she told them, the rest of the party was already assembled.
The small room had a trace of an opium den about it, with its dark red walls, vaguely Chinese-looking carved wooden screens and subdued lighting. The four people waiting for them hadn’t yet sat down. All turned, falling silent, when Strike and Robin entered.
‘Aha,’ said the smiling, bespectacled, pink-faced man nearest the door. He looked younger than his untidy white hair might have suggested and his slightly baggy suit looked as though it was worn for reasons of comfort rather than style. ‘Mr Strike and Miss Ellacott, yes? How do you do? I’m Allan Yeoman.’
He shook hands with both of them in turn, then introduced them to the dapper, forty-something man beside him, whose tie was the same silvery colour of Madeline’s bedroom curtains. His dark hair was as neat as Yeoman’s was scruffy and his well-tailored suit had very definitely been chosen for reasons of style.
‘This is Richard Elgar, chief executive of Maverick Films in the UK.’
‘Hi,’ said Elgar, and his accent revealed him to be American. A glint of onyx and steel cufflink was revealed as he shook hands. ‘Good to meet you. You actually helped a friend of mine out with a personal matter a couple of years ago.’
He mentioned the name of a female client who’d divorced a philandering multimillionaire.
‘And this is Grant Ledwell,’ said Yeoman, indicating a man with heavy eyebrows and an underbite, which gave him more than a passing resemblance to a bulldog. Grant’s thick hair was bristle cut, his blue suit was double-breasted and his shirt collar looked tight. ‘Edie’s uncle, you know.’
Grant’s strong jaw and bushy eyebrows didn’t entirely account for the slightly pugnacious air he was giving off.
‘Very sorry for your loss,’ said Strike as they shook hands, and Grant made an ambiguous, subterranean noise in his throat.
‘And his wife, Heather,’ concluded Yeoman.
Heather, who was pregnant, looked at least ten years younger than her husband. Though not particularly good-looking, she gave a general impression of lustrous fecundity, with her creamy skin and long, glossy brown hair. Her clinging, low-cut purple wrap dress revealed at least half of her swollen breasts. Robin noticed how determinedly Strike kept his eyes firmly on Heather’s face as he shook her hand.
‘I’ve read all about you,’ Heather said, beaming up at Strike. ‘Wow.’
‘Shall we sit down?’ suggested Allan Yeoman.
The six of them took their seats around the circular table and Robin wondered whether anyone else was reminded unavoidably of a séance, with the light pooled over the table but the corners of the room in shadow. When Heather pulled her chair in, one of the bright overhead lights illuminated her breasts so that they looked like twin moons; the waiter who’d arrived to hand out menus stared for a few seconds as though dazed.
Elgar made easy small talk about the Arts Club, of which he was a member, until the door closed behind the waiter, leaving the group alone.
‘Well,’ said Yeoman, turning to Strike and Robin, ‘it’s very good of you to meet us.’
‘We’re happy to be here,’ said Strike.
‘I know Edie would be glad we’re meeting, too,’ Yeoman continued sombrely. ‘As you can imagine, this has been an appalling shock for all of us – and for Grant and Heather, of course, a personal tragedy.’
‘How’s the police investigation going?’ Strike asked Grant.
‘We haven’t had an update for a week,’ said Edie’s uncle, whose voice tended naturally to a growl. ‘But they seem pretty convinced it was someone from this far-right group, this Halving, or whatever they’re called.’
‘Have they got a description of the attacker yet?’ Strike asked.
‘No,’ said Grant. ‘Blay claims he was hit in the back with the Taser. Says he fell face-down, was stabbed on the ground and all he saw was a pair of black trainers running away.’
‘Is there some doubt about his story?’ asked Strike, because Grant’s voice had held a note of scepticism.
‘Well, people online are saying he stabbed Edie,’ Heather said before Grant could answer. ‘Aren’t they, Grub? And, face it, this has all worked out quite well for Blay, really, hasn’t it? He’s been left in charge of everything, hasn’t he?’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Grant shortly. ‘We’ll see to that.’
There was a slightly uncomfortable pause.
‘The papers say he was stabbed in the neck,’ Strike said.
‘That’s right,’ said Yeoman before Grant could respond. ‘From what I gather, what saved him was the high collar on his leather jacket. If the knife had gone in any deeper – I believe it was a question of millimetres. Even so, he’s been left with a significant spinal-cord injury and he’s partially paralysed.’
‘He and Edie had fallen out—’ began Grant, but two waiters now re-entered the room with bottles of water and a selection of bread rolls, and he fell silent. Nobody had ordered alcohol. When the man pouring water asked whether they’d decided what they were going to eat yet, Heather gave a little laugh.