Please, if you can, check and see whether Lin was admitted to the local hospital, I’m worried sick about her.
Robin x
‘Yeah, she definitely needs to come out,’ said Strike. ‘Next letter, I’ll tell her to wait by the rock and we’ll pick her up. Enough’s enough.’
He was worried, not only by what Robin termed Wace’s grope – what exactly did that mean? – but by the fact she’d witnessed something that was highly incriminating of the church. This, of course, was exactly what she’d gone to Chapman Farm to do, but Strike hadn’t anticipated Robin hanging around afterwards, a dangerous witness to serious wrongdoing. While he understood why she’d admitted seeing Lin with those plants, she’d seriously compromised herself by doing so, and ought to have got out immediately that had happened. There was a board on the wall behind him showing how many people had died or disappeared in the vicinity of Papa J.
‘What?’ he said, under the impression that Barclay had just spoken to him.
‘I said, what’re ye up tae this morning?’
‘Oh,’ said Strike. ‘Sacking Littlejohn.’
He brought up a photograph on his phone, then handed it to Barclay.
‘First thing he did when he got back from Greece was go and see Patterson. About bloody time I got something for all the money I’ve been shelling out.’
‘Great,’ said Barclay. ‘Can we replace him wi’ whoever took this picture?’
‘Not unless you want this office stripped of everything sellable by Tuesday.’
‘Where ye gonnae do it?’
‘Here. He’s on his way.’
‘Can I stay an’ watch? Might be my one and only chance tae hear his voice.’
‘Thought you were on Frank Two?’
‘I am, aye,’ sighed Barclay. ‘Which means I’ll be watchin’ him watchin’ Mayo for hours. If they’re gonnae make a move, I wish they’d fuckin’ hurry up.’
‘Keen to see our client kidnapped, are you?’
‘Ye know what I mean. This could go on for months.’
‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to hot up pretty soon.’
Barclay left. Strike heard him pass Littlejohn in the doorway with pleasure: he was looking forward to this.
‘Morning,’ said Littlejohn, appearing in the doorway Barclay had just vacated, his short salt-and-pepper hair as neat as ever, his world-weary eyes fixed on Strike. ‘Can I get a coffee before—?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Come in, sit down and close the door.’
Littlejohn blinked, but did as he was bid. Now looking wary, he crossed to Robin’s chair at the partners’ desk and sat down.
‘Care to explain that?’ asked Strike, pushing his phone across the desk, face up, displaying a photograph taken the previous day of Littlejohn and Patterson outside the latter’s office in Marylebone.
The silence that ensued lasted nearly two minutes. Strike, who was inwardly debating whether Littlejohn was about to say ‘I just bumped into him’ or ‘OK, fair cop,’ allowed the silence to spool through the room undisturbed. At last, the subcontractor made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. Then, which Strike hadn’t anticipated, he began to cry.
If Strike had been asked to rank everyone he’d witnessed crying recently according to how much sympathy he felt for their distress, he’d have given Bijou last place without hesitation. Now, however, he realised there was a category of weeper he despised even more than a woman who’d played a duplicitous game that had blown up in her face: a man who’d done his best to take down another person’s business, destroy that person’s reputation, undermine an investigation into men stalking a woman, and cause that woman additional fear and alarm, all of which he’d presumably done for money, but who now seemed to expect pity for being found out.
While tempted to give the man what Strike would have considered a proper reason for crying, he judged that there might be capital to be made out of what he supposed was Littlejohn’s attempt to show contrition. Strike therefore made no comment as Littlejohn sobbed, but waited to see what came next.
‘I’m in a lot of debt,’ Littlejohn finally blurted out. ‘I got myself in trouble. Online gambling. Blackjack. I’ve got a problem.’
I’ll show you fucking problems. You wait.
‘How’s that relevant?’
‘I’m up to my ears,’ sobbed Littlejohn. ‘The wife doesn’t know how bad it is. Mitch,’ said Littlejohn, brandishing the phone showing Patterson’s picture, ‘gave me a loan to get the worst people off my back. Interest-free.’
‘In exchange for which, you agreed to take me down.’
‘I never—’
‘You posted a snake through Tasha Mayo’s door. You tried to gain entry to this office when there shouldn’t have been anyone here, presumably to bug it. You were caught by Pat trying to take pictures of the Edensor—’
‘She’s lied to you, that Pat.’
‘If you’re about to tell me she’s sixty-seven, I already know. Big fucking deal.’
Littlejohn’s disappointment that this titbit was of no use was palpable, but Strike was pleased to learn that ratting other people out was Littlejohn’s preferred strategy for getting out of messes. Much could be done with such a man.
‘Why’s Patterson doing this?’ asked Strike.
‘He’s got a real fucking thing about you,’ said Littlejohn, trying to stem the stream of snot from his nose. ‘He’s an old mate of Roy Carver’s. He blames you for Carver getting forced out and it pisses him off you get all the publicity, and clients want you, not him. He says you’re taking all his business. He was really fucked off about Colin Edensor sacking us and coming here instead.’
Tears were still dripping from Littlejohn’s world-weary eyes.
‘I prefer working for you, though. I’d rather stay here. I could be useful to you.’
With immense difficulty, Strike refrained from asking what use he could possibly have for a treacherous, weak-willed man who had neither the morals to refuse to terrorise a woman who was already scared, nor the brains to stop himself being rumbled as a saboteur. Strike could only assume it was this mixture of delusion and wishful thinking that had led Littlejohn to lose a fortune at blackjack.
‘Well, if you want to be useful,’ said Strike, ‘you can start now. Give me my phone.’
He brought up the picture of the black-haired woman who’d been skulking on the corner of Denmark Street.
‘Who’s she?’
Littlejohn looked at the picture, swallowed, then said,
‘Yeah, she’s one of Mitch’s. I told him I thought you were having me watched. He put Farah on you as a back-up.’
‘What’s her full name?’ said Strike, opening his notebook.
‘Farah Navabi,’ muttered Littlejohn.
‘And what would you know about bugs in Andrew Honbold’s office?’
‘Nothing,’ said Littlejohn, too fast.
‘Listen,’ said Strike quietly, leaning forwards. ‘Honbold’s not going to let just anyone in there. His wife’s got him bang to rights already, she doesn’t need to bug him to take him to the cleaners. Somebody thought it was worth their while to put an illegal bug in Honbold’s office, and my name and Honbold’s have been in the press lately. So when I go and see Honbold and show him Patterson’s picture, your picture, Farah’s—’
‘It was Farah,’ muttered Littlejohn.
‘Thought it might be,’ said Strike, sitting back in his chair. ‘Well, I think we’re done here. You’ll understand why, under the circumstances, I won’t be asking Pat to give you the salary you’re owed.’
‘No, listen,’ said Littlejohn, in what looked like panic: evidently he could see his employment with Patterson Inc terminating soon as well. ‘I’ve got more stuff for you.’