‘I’m sure you have. How’s it going with Mads, anyway?’ she asked as she took a seat and crossed her long legs.
‘What d’you want?’ Strike repeated.
He chose not to sit down, even though his hamstring was still throbbing, but stood with his arms folded, looking down at her.
‘I need a detective,’ said Charlotte. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not expecting a freebie. I’ll pay.’
‘You won’t,’ said Strike, ‘because our client list’s full. You’ll have to find someone else. I recommend McCabes.’
‘I thought you might tell me to go somewhere else,’ said Charlotte, no longer smiling, ‘but if I take this particular problem to McCabes, they might just leak it to drive you out of business. I’d imagine you’re a bit of a thorn in the side of other detective agencies these days. First on everyone’s list, I expect.’
When Strike didn’t answer, Charlotte looked around the office with her flecked green eyes and said,
‘It’s bigger than I remembered… I like Mads, by the way,’ she added, looking back at the stony-faced Strike. ‘You know I did a bit of modelling for her the other week? It was quite fun. The collection’s called “Notorious” and—’
‘Yeah, I know all about the collection.’
‘I bet it took a lot of persuasion for you to let her keep me in.’
‘There was no persuasion needed. It was nothing to do with me.’
‘Mads told me you’d OK-ed it,’ said Charlotte, eyebrows raised.
Inwardly cursing Madeline, Strike said:
‘If that’s what you want to call me saying “do whatever you like, it’s nothing to do with me”.’
‘Oh, let’s stop playing games, Bluey,’ said Charlotte earnestly.
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘I know you know why I’m here. Valentine told you, at New Year.’
When Strike didn’t respond, she said,
‘Must admit, I was quite surprised you wanted to pick up a girl who was out with Valentine.’
‘You think I chatted up Madeline purely to get to you, do you?’ said Strike. ‘Your fucking ego… The only negative thing about her I could see was that she knew your fucking stepbrother.’
‘If you say so, darling,’ said Charlotte.
He heard the thrill of pleasure in her voice. She’d always loved sparring. At least when I’m fighting I know I’m alive.
‘All right,’ she said lightly, ‘if you want me to spell it out. Jago found the nude I sent you, on my old phone.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Don’t pretend, Bluey, you know he did – Valentine told you. I assume you don’t think Valentine’s a – what was it you called me, during that last row? A narcissistic mythomaniac?’
‘I think you made bloody sure Jago found that nude, which as you fucking well know I didn’t ask for and didn’t want.’
‘Hmm,’ said Charlotte, eyebrows raised (and in truth, how many straight men could honestly say they wouldn’t want a nude picture of her?). ‘Well, Jago doesn’t buy that. He also knows you phoned Symonds House while I was there – and incidentally, I never asked you to do that.’
‘You sent me suicidal fucking messages from the grounds.’
‘Well, you could have ignored me, darling, you’ve had plenty of practice,’ said Charlotte. ‘Anyway, Jago knew it was you who phoned them, he’s not stupid, and he doesn’t believe you were being a Boy Scout, he thinks you had some personal interest in saving my life.’
‘An impression I’m sure you were eager to correct.’
‘When Jago wants to believe something, dynamite wouldn’t shift him,’ said Charlotte.
Strike took half a step towards her. His leg throbbed worse than ever.
‘If I’m named in your poxy divorce, my business will be fucked. It’ll mean paps following me, my face all over the papers—’
‘Exactly,’ said Charlotte, looking him steadily in the face. ‘Which is why I thought you might like to help me get something on Jago before he screws both of us. He’s trying to take the twins away from me. He wants full custody and he’s determined to get me into court and have me declared an unfit mother. He’s got a tame psychiatrist ready to say I’m crazy and unstable, and he’s hoping to get me certified drug-addled and promiscuous to boot. Ruining you will just be an extra bit of fun.’
‘You told me you couldn’t wait to leave your fucking kids while you were pregnant with them.’
He thought he saw her composure waver at that, but then, with a good impression of her previous calm:
‘They’re mine as much as his. I’m not just a fucking incubator, whatever Jago’s mother thinks. I’m the mother of the future Viscount Ross. James is the heir to the title and he’s my bloody son and they’re not having him – they’re not having either of them.
‘Amelia’s going to testify that he beat me up,’ Charlotte went on. Amelia was Charlotte’s sister, a plainer but far less volatile woman, who’d never much liked Strike. ‘She saw me with a black eye, just before I got packed off to Symonds House.’
‘If that’s supposed to awaken my chivalrous instincts,’ said Strike, ‘I’d remind you that you knew damn well what he was before you married him. I remember you telling me he’d beaten up his ex when you came out to see me in Germany. You heard it on the old fucking girls’ network and you had a good laugh about what a lucky escape you’d had.’
‘So I deserve to be smacked around, do I?’ said Charlotte, her voice rising.
‘Don’t play fucking games with me,’ snarled Strike. ‘You know fucking well that if I believed any woman should be knocked around we wouldn’t be having this conversation, because you’d already be dead.’
‘Charming,’ said Charlotte.
‘You only agreed to marry Jago because you thought I’d come and burst into the wedding and stop you doing it, that I’d ride to your fucking rescue yet a-fucking-gain. You told me as much: “I didn’t think you’d let me do it.”’
‘So what?’ said Charlotte impatiently. ‘Where does any of this get us? Are you going to help me get something on Jago, yes or no?’
‘No,’ said Strike.
There was a long silence. For a full minute Charlotte looked up at him, and he found her appallingly familiar, fatally desirable and utterly enraging.
‘OK, darling,’ she said in a clipped voice, bending to pick up her handbag and getting to her feet again. ‘Well, don’t forget this conversation when you try and pin what happens next on me. I asked you to help me stop it. You refused.’
She smoothed out the cashmere dress. He wondered how long she’d taken to decide what to wear to meet him. Her pared-back style, often praised by fashion magazines, was, he knew, the result of careful deliberation. Now, in a familiar move, she waited for him to open the door for her; how often had she, who claimed to deplore the milieu into which she’d been born, suddenly decided that she wanted old-world manners from the boyfriend who’d spent a large part of his early life in squalor?
Strike wrenched the door open. As she passed him, he smelled Shalimar, and hated the fact that he recognised it.
Robin, who was reading through the document she’d printed earlier, looked up. Her blue dress, which she liked, felt like a dishcloth beside the quality of Charlotte’s clothes: every item Charlotte wore, Robin knew, would need specialist cleaning.
‘Short but sweet,’ said Charlotte, smiling at Robin. ‘Nice to meet you properly at last. I think we’ve spoken a couple of times on the phone.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, aware of Strike glowering in the background but mustering a polite smile.