‘What did you think?’
‘I think it’s insane,’ said Strike. ‘What’s that Drek character s’posed to be?’
‘I don’t think even Josh and Edie knew,’ said Robin.
‘How’s that going?’ Strike asked, pointing at Anomie’s Twitter feed.
‘A few interesting bits and pieces,’ said Robin, ‘but nothing major so far.’
‘We should do a full catch-up soon,’ said Strike. ‘By the way, Phillip Ormond can meet us next Thursday. He’s been in Ireland. School holidays.’
‘Great. Have you heard back from Katya Upcott?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘I spoke to her husband, who told me she was visiting Blay in hospital and sounded quite pissed off about it. She hasn’t rung back. Might give her a nudge this afternoon. Anyway… enjoy Twitter.’
The April day was sunny and the short walk to Newman Street gave Strike time to smoke a cigarette. Upon seeing Strike approaching, Shah moved off down the street without speaking to him, which told Strike their target remained inside the building with the splashy graphic design in primary colours on its glass double doors.
Strike was just debating whether to sit down at the conveniently placed café opposite the office and order a coffee when the glass doors opened and Seb Montgomery emerged.
He looked exactly like a hundred other young men walking the Fitzrovia streets this lunchtime: medium height, skinny, neatly groomed beard, dark hair cut long on top and cropped at the sides, just like Wally Cardew’s, and all-black outfit comprising T-shirt, bomber jacket, jeans and trainers. Seb also had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a phone in his hand, on which he was currently typing. Strike automatically checked Anomie’s Twitter feed, which was inactive.
Strike thought he detected a jaunty air about Montgomery, as though his working day was over even though it was barely two o’clock. This suspicion was confirmed when, instead of turning into any of the eateries along his route, Montgomery went into Goodge Street Underground station, Strike following at a distance.
The detective soon realised Montgomery wasn’t going home, because he boarded the Northern line. Strike entered the same carriage, standing in the corner by choice, watching Montgomery’s reflection in the dark window. The young man sat with his knees wide apart, effectively blocking the seats on either side of him, apparently playing some game on his phone and glancing up periodically. As they approached Highgate station, Montgomery pocketed his phone, hitched his messenger bag back onto his shoulder and headed for the doors.
Strike allowed a group of four young women to pass ahead of him up the escalator, so that he wasn’t too close to his target. As he reached street level, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Barclay had sent a text.
Cardew heading north. Possibly Highgate
Montgomery had left the station, but advanced only as far as a tall, prematurely balding young man standing just outside it. The unknown man’s jeans, shirt and jacket were nondescript, as suitable for a man of fifty as they were for a person in his late twenties, which Strike guessed him to be. Montgomery and the stranger shook hands, both looking slightly awkward, though evidently they knew each other, because Strike caught routine exchanges of ‘how’s it going?’ and ‘long time no see’. The detective lingered inside the station, because it was clear to him that Montgomery and the unknown young man were waiting for someone else to join them, and it didn’t take great perspicacity to guess who the third person was.
Already at station, he texted Barclay. SM here waiting for WC. Suggest we greet each other and follow them in tandem.
Twenty minutes later, by which point Montgomery and his unknown companion seemed to have exhausted everything they had to say to each other, Wally Cardew appeared through the ticket barrier, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read ‘Fuck Calm, Die in Battle and Go to Valhalla’. Upon seeing Montgomery and the second man he said loudly, in his Drek falsetto,
‘You is a pair of mukfluks!’ and the other two laughed, though Strike thought he saw a shade of apprehension in the taller man’s expression. Montgomery reciprocated Wally’s complicated hip-hop handshake and the failure of the second man to do so correctly generated some ice-breaking laughter. The threesome had moved off up the street together and Barclay emerged from the place where he’d been hovering out of sight.
‘Sherlock Bigcock, I presume?’ Barclay muttered to Strike.
‘And you must be Tartan Twelve-Inch,’ replied Strike. ‘Shall we?’
They headed off after their targets, who were already two hundred yards away, walking in an apparently prearranged direction.
‘What’s Cardew been up to?’ asked Strike.
‘Fuck knows. He’s bin inside all day,’ said Barclay. ‘Maybe they’re goin’ tae visit the scene o’ the crime. Whur’s the cemetery from here?’
‘Not far,’ said Strike, checking his phone, ‘and we’re heading in the right direction.’
‘Who’s the baw heid?’
‘No idea,’ said Strike.
As they followed the three younger men, Strike brought up Anomie’s Twitter account again. There was no new activity: the last time Anomie had tweeted was shortly before eleven o’clock that morning, when he’d commented on the terrorist who’d bombed the Boston marathon.
Anomie
@AnomieGamemaster
Haha Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s mother says he’s the ‘best of the best’
Yeah, you must be so proud, you stupid fucking bitch.
10.58 am 9 April 2015
The three young men Strike and Barclay were following proceeded along a street lined with Georgian houses, eventually turning off the road into the forecourt of a large, white-painted and bow-windowed pub called the Red Lion and Sun, where wooden tables and benches stood among shrubs in pots. After some brief dithering, they decided to sit outside. The tall, bald man disappeared into the pub to buy the first round. Strike took a table a short distance away from their targets, while Barclay headed inside for drinks. The only other drinkers in the beer garden were an elderly couple who were sitting in silence, reading the newspapers while their Cavalier King Charles spaniel snoozed at their feet.
‘Nearly a total slaphead now, innee, poor bastard?’ Strike heard Cardew say, his speaking voice loud enough to reach Strike. ‘’E still ’ad enough for a combover last time I saw ’im.’
Montgomery laughed.
‘You still at that – wha’s it, cartoon place, or—?’
‘Digital effects,’ said Montgomery, whose accent was middle class. ‘Yeah.’
‘Fucked anythin’ good lately?’
The elderly owners of the Cavalier King Charles spaniel had looked around at this question, then returned their gazes quickly to their papers. Strike thought them wise.
Montgomery laughed again, though with slightly more restraint.
‘Yeah, I’m – got a girlfriend. Living together, actually.’
‘The fuck you doin’ that for?’ said Wally in mock outrage. ‘You’re on’y my age!’
‘Dunno,’ said Montgomery. ‘We get on really – ah, here’s Nils.’
Strike glanced up over the top of the phone in which he was pretending to be absorbed. A sallow-skinned giant of a man with long blond hair and an untidy goatee was crossing the road, heading towards the pub. The newcomer looked as though he was in his forties, wore a loose, dark pink shirt, khaki cargo shorts and dirty Birkenstocks, and had to be at least six foot six. Beside him walked a boy who was unmistakably his son: both had wide, upturned mouths and hooded, downturned eyes, which gave a peculiarly mask-like appearance. Though already as tall as Seb Montgomery, the boy’s slightly pigeon-toed, childish walk made Strike suspect he was far younger than his size would have suggested: perhaps eleven or twelve.