‘Well,’ said Strike, reaching for the folder he’d brought with him, ‘before we go any further, you should probably have a look at our standard contract and rates. I’ve got contracts here, if you’d like to give them the once over.’
He passed the contracts over the table and there was a lull while Elgar and Yeoman perused the terms and conditions, and the only sound was the scraping of Strike’s, Robin’s and the Ledwells’ knives and forks, and the sound of Grant’s chewing, which was unusually loud. Finally the agent and the film executive took out pens and signed the agreements, along with a third copy for the agency.
‘Thank you,’ said Strike, once all had been signed and he’d taken his own copy back.
‘And I,’ said Yeoman, reaching beneath his own chair in turn, ‘should give you this.’
It was the cardboard folder Edie had brought to the agency and left behind on the toilet cistern.
‘We’ll get started immediately,’ said Strike. ‘If you can give me your contact details I’ll update you weekly, but obviously if we have queries or important information I’ll be in touch before that.’
Both Elgar and Yeoman handed business cards across the table.
‘As a matter of interest,’ Strike said, having put their cards in his wallet, ‘once you know who Anomie is, what do you intend to do about it?’
There was another pause, and a deeper silence than hitherto, because Grant was no longer chewing. Richard Elgar then spoke.
‘Literally nobody,’ said the American, ‘is mob-proof. I’m sure, if you’re able to find out who Anomie is, we’ll be able to find some evidence of hypocrisy, racial insensitivity, sexual harassment… Those who live by the mob must be prepared to die by the mob. Once we know who we’re dealing with, I don’t think it’ll be too hard to turn Anomie from hunter into prey.’
19
Yes; I was tired, but not at heart;
No–that beats full of sweet content,
For now I have my natural part
Of action with adventure blent;
Cast forth on the wide world with thee,
And all my once waste energy
To weighty purpose bent.
‘Fancy a pint and a debrief?’ asked Strike half an hour later, once he and Robin were back outside on the chilly pavement and Strike was flagging down a taxi.
‘Definitely,’ said Robin.
‘The Tottenham pub, Charing Cross Road,’ Strike told the driver, and he opened the door for Robin to enter the cab first.
Her enthusiastic tone as she’d agreed to the pub had pleased him. It was being slowly borne in on him that Robin wasn’t avoiding tête-a-têtes with him, as she surely would have done if she’d truly felt repelled by what had happened outside the Ritz. He’d expected her to match his own subsequent increase in reserve, yet she seemed to be trying to resume the friendly relations they’d had before he’d made that foolish move.
‘Any news on the flat?’ he asked as their taxi rolled back towards the West End.
‘I put in an increased offer yesterday,’ said Robin. ‘Waiting to hear. It’d be so great to get it. I’m tired of looking at horrible places and feeling like a gooseberry at Max’s.’
The road outside the Tottenham, Strike’s favourite pub in the vicinity of their office, remained a building site and they had to cross planks over a rubble-filled ditch to reach the door. Once inside, and in spite of the noise outside, they found the familiar safe haven, with its engraved glass mirrors and decorative panels painted by a long-dead theatrical designer.
Having requested a coffee, Robin sat down on one of the red leather banquettes and took out her phone to look up the North Grove Art Collective. When Strike joined her, holding a pint, he said,
‘We should let the police know we’ve been asked to find Anomie, as a courtesy. I’ll ring DCI Murphy.’
‘Great,’ said Robin. Then, passing Strike her phone, ‘There: look – that’s where it all started.’
Strike looked down at a photograph of a large dirty pink house, beneath which was written:
NORTH GROVE ART COLLECTIVE
We offer classes in life drawing, pottery, print-making and photography.
Beginners welcome! We also rent studio space to artists.
‘If Josh was still hanging around the collective right up to the stabbing, we should check it out,’ said Robin. ‘It’s got to be a possible haunt of Anomie’s.’
‘Agreed,’ said Strike, scrolling down the website to examine pictures of art classes, some featuring earnest-looking adults sitting behind their pottery wheels, others showing children in PVC aprons making prints, with many examples of students’ oil paintings, photographs and pencil drawings. As he handed back the phone, he said,
‘Fancy having a go at a suspect profile?’
‘Go on,’ said Robin, taking out her notebook.
‘Well, if Anomie’s genuinely what they represent themselves to be – a fan who’s obsessed with the game – they’re surely young.’
‘Agreed,’ said Robin. ‘I can’t imagine anyone over thirty being this obsessed with a cartoon on YouTube.’
‘But if they’re not just an angry fan, and in fact had a massive personal grudge against Edie and saw this as a way to get at her—’
‘Well, yes, then they could be any age, I suppose,’ said Robin.
‘And we’re looking for someone with programming or coding experience,’ said Strike, pulling out his notebook and starting to write.
‘Unless…’ said Robin, and Strike looked up. ‘Well, Edie told me the game was like a beautifully animated chatroom. If two people genuinely made it, one could be an artist or a designer and the other a programmer?’
‘We need to get inside that game,’ said Strike, setting down his pen and pulling out his mobile. ‘That’s first base: have a good look from the inside and see what we can pick up.’
While Strike was searching for the game online, Robin drank her coffee and savoured a feeling of contentment as her eyes roamed around the familiar painted panels. The slight constraint that had hung over her interactions with Strike since that night at the Ritz seemed to have dispersed completely in the face of this new case. While Strike was scowling over his phone, typing search terms with his thick fingers, Robin allowed her eyes to rest on him and to feel the unalloyed fondness that had so often disturbed her peace of mind.
‘Shit,’ said Strike after a solid five minutes’ silence.
‘What?’ said Robin.
‘I can’t get in. Just made three attempts.’
He showed Robin his phone’s screen. A small animation of Harty, the jet-black heart with his hanging arteries and veins, looked back at her out of the screen, smiling and shrugging. Beneath Harty were the words:
‘Whoops! Something went wrong. Try again later, bwah!’
‘I’ll have a go,’ said Robin. She got to work on her own mobile, but after entering the email address she’d set up for these kinds of circumstances, which had no connection either to her real name or to the agency, and picking a password, she, too, found herself looking at the little animation of Harty shrugging, and was told to try again later.