A couple of days after Anomie and Kea’s first interaction, Anomie had again directed their followers to Kea’s video, and Kea had shown her appreciation.
Kea Niven @realPaperwhite
replying to @AnomieGamemaster
Thanks so much for sharing and sticking up for truth ♥
Anomie @AnomieGamemaster
replying to @realPaperwhite
Have DMed you.
‘DMed’, as Robin knew, meant that Anomie had sent Kea a direct message. There were no further public interactions between the two that Robin could find.
Turning back to Kea’s more recent Twitter output, Robin saw that in the five days after the stabbing story had broken, Kea hadn’t tweeted at all, but on the sixth day she’d posted a link to a microblogging site, tumblr, which Robin clicked on.
Following a catastrophic downturn in my health I’ve been forced to leave London to return to live with my mother. I’m currently bedbound. As I live with multiple disabilities, this isn’t an unusual situation, but it’s probably the severest relapse I’ve had in several years. Honestly at this point, death would be a relief.
A hundred and fifteen notes had been posted beneath this short message. They began kindly enough.
thinking of you Kea xxx
so sorry to hear this, K. Remember, self-love is not selfishness
But slowly, and not altogether to Robin’s surprise, another theme began to surface.
sorry you’re ill but you got nothing to say about your ex who’s literally fighting for his life?
no comment on Edie Ledwell being murdered?
yeah I’d probably go to bed and stay there if I were you
fuck, not a word – NOT A WORD – about Ledwell and Blay?
bitch you couldn’t stop fucking talking about Ledwell and Blay for four years and now you got nothing to say?
‘death would be a relief’ wow, so we should pity you more than Ledwell, is that what you’re saying?
The landline on the desk in front of Robin rang. Her eyes still on Kea’s tumblr page, Robin answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Message from Mr Strike,’ said Pat’s gravelly voice in her ear. ‘He thinks you might need to go to Gateshead on Monday.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Robin quietly, closing tumblr with her left hand as she spoke. ‘Another one?’
‘Well, he wasn’t clear,’ said Pat, ‘but yes, I think it was Gateshead he said.’
‘Male?’
‘No, the other one.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, ‘coming out now.’
‘Thanks, I’ll let him know,’ said Pat and hung up.
Robin got up, crossed to the door into the outer office and opened it.
There on the fake leather sofa, beautiful and composed, sat Charlotte Campbell.
25
… in truth now have you seen
Ever anywhere such beauty, such a stature, such a mien?
She may be queen of devils but she’s every inch a queen.
Strike, who was currently walking up Charing Cross Road towards the office, was tired, sore, and bitterly regretting the Balti curry he’d eaten late the previous evening with Madeline. He was very fond of highly spiced food, so didn’t understand why his guts had been churning most of the day, unless it had something to do with the combination of madras and the acidic cocktail Madeline had insisted he have first, because they were a speciality of the house. A night of very little sleep had followed, because he’d felt uncomfortably gassy. Then, instead of keeping comfortable watch over Groomer’s office from a café (their client having now agreed that it might be a good idea to try to find out something about Groomer that would repel her daughter), he’d been forced to follow the man on foot as he firstly went shopping on Bond Street, then lunched in a booked-out restaurant and finally chose to walk all the way to the British Museum for what Strike assumed was a business meeting, because he was greeted at the door by a couple of people wearing name badges.
‘I don’t know where the fuck he’s gone,’ Strike told Barclay irritably in the museum’s Great Court, the all-white two-acre space with a spectacular glass roof that cast a mesh of triangular shadows over walls and floor. ‘He got in that lift, but I didn’t make it in time.’
He didn’t want to admit that the hamstring of his amputated leg, which he’d previously torn, was playing up again. He’d missed the lift because he was starting to limp and hadn’t been able to move fast enough to bypass a large crowd of tourists.
‘Ach, nae bother,’ said the Glaswegian, ‘he’ll have to come doon sooner or later. Anyway, doubt he’s doing drugs or hookers in here.’
So Strike had left, masochistically taking the Tube rather than a cab, and as he hobbled into Denmark Street he felt only relief at the prospect of being able to sit down for an hour or so with a strong mug of tea, in close proximity to his own bathroom where, if necessary, he could fart as loudly as he pleased.
For about the thousandth time, climbing the stairs, he wondered why he’d never contacted the landlord about getting the lift fixed. Finally, having heaved himself onto the second landing with the aid of the banister, he pushed open the glass door to find three women looking at him: Pat, Robin and Charlotte.
For a moment he simply stared at Charlotte, who was sitting on the fake leather sofa with her long legs crossed, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun, her make-up-free skin flawless. She was wearing a cream cashmere dress and a long brown suede coat and boots, and, though very thin, looked as gorgeous as he’d ever seen her.
‘Hello, Corm,’ she said, smiling.
He didn’t return the smile, but turned an almost accusing look at Robin, who felt nettled. She hadn’t invited Charlotte into the office and it wasn’t her fault if Charlotte, having been told that Strike wasn’t there, had simply announced that she’d wait.
‘It isn’t Robin’s fault,’ said Charlotte, as though she’d read both their minds. ‘I just walked in off the street. Could I have a word?’
In silence, Strike limped across to the door dividing the inner office from the outer, opened it and pointed Charlotte ungraciously inside. She got up unhurriedly, picked up her handbag, smiled at both Robin and Pat, said ‘thanks’, although neither had done anything for which she might reasonably thank them, and walked past Strike, leaving a faint trace of Shalimar in her wake.
When Strike had closed the door on his partner and office manager, Charlotte said,
‘Have you got a code for women who come here to fling themselves at the famous detective? Is that what “Gateshead” means?’
‘What d’you want?’ said Strike.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down? Or d’you prefer clients to stand in your presence?’
‘Do whatever you like but make it quick. I’ve got things to do.’