Tasha emerged from the gym, a bag over her shoulder, head bowed over her phone. Strike followed, keeping a short distance between himself and the actress. His mobile rang again: he pulled it out, refused the call and shoved it back into his pocket.
Tasha was approaching the cul-de-sac. As she passed beneath a street light, Strike heard the van doors open.
The balaclavaed men were running, the foremost with a large mallet in his gloved hand. As he broke into a run, Strike heard Barclay bellow ‘OI!’ and Tasha’s scream.
Barclay’s shout had caused the mallet-holder to check – Strike’s hands closed on Tasha’s shoulders – as he pushed her sideways, the unwieldy weapon missed her by three feet; Strike, too, dodged it, his left hand already in a fist, which hit the wool-covered jaw so hard his victim let out a high-pitched squeak and fell backwards onto the pavement, where he lay momentarily stunned, his arms outstretched like Christ.
‘Stay down,’ snarled Strike, smacking his own victim again as he attempted to scramble to his feet. Barclay’s man was gripping the Scot round the waist in a fruitless attempt to evade the former’s punches, but as Strike watched, Frank Two’s legs gave way.
‘Search the van,’ Strike called to Midge, who’d come running out of her hiding place, her mobile still held up, recording, ‘see if there are restraints – stay fucking down,’ he added, hitting the first brother in the head again.
‘AND YOU,’ yelled Barclay, whose own Frank had just attempted to punch him in the balls and who’d got a boot in the diaphragm in return.
‘Oh my God,’ muttered Tasha, who’d picked up the mallet. She looked from Barclay’s groaning victim, who was lying in the foetal position, to Strike’s motionless one. ‘Is he – have you knocked him out?’
‘No,’ said Strike, because he’d just seen the balaclavaed man readjust his position slightly. ‘He’s faking, silly bastard. It’s called reasonable force, arsehole,’ he added to the prone figure, as Midge came running back with several black plastic security restraints.
‘Might not need tae call the police ourselves,’ said Barclay, glancing across the road at a dogwalker with a cocker spaniel, who stood immobile, transfixed by the scene.
‘All the better,’ said Strike, who was forcing his struggling Frank’s wrists together, the man having stopped pretending to be unconscious. This done, Strike pulled off the balaclava to see the familiar high forehead, squint and thinning hair.
‘Well,’ said Strike, ‘that didn’t go the way you thought it would, did it?’
In an unexpectedly high voice, the man said,
‘I want my social worker!’ which surprised Strike into a loud guffaw.
‘There ye go, dickhead,’ said Barclay, who’d successfully restrained his own man and unmasked him, at which point the younger brother started to cry.
‘I didn’t do nothing. I don’t understand.’
‘Get tae fuck,’ said Barclay, and looking over at Strike he added, ‘Nice footwork. ’Specially fur a bloke who’s only got one o’ them.’
‘Cheers,’ said Strike. ‘Let’s—’ His mobile started to ring again, ‘for fuck’s sake. Somebody keeps – what?’ he said angrily, answering the unknown number.
Barclay, Midge and Tasha watched as Strike’s face became blank.
‘Where?’ he said. ‘All right… I’m on my way now.’
‘What’s happened?’ said Midge, as Strike hung up.
‘That was Robin’s father. She’s been taken in for questioning.’
‘What?’
‘Can you handle these two without me, until the police get here?’
‘Yeah, of course. We’ve got a mallet,’ said Midge, pulling it out of Tasha’s hands.
‘Fair point,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll let you know what’s going on once I find out.’
He turned and set off as fast as his now throbbing right knee would allow.
94
There are secret forces at work, leading together those who belong together. We must yield to this attraction; then we make no mistakes.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
It took Strike an hour to reach the police station to which Robin had been taken. As he slowed down, looking for a place to park, he passed three figures who appeared to be arguing outside the square stone building. Once he’d found a parking space and walked back towards the station, he recognised the threesome as Robin and her parents.
‘Strike,’ said Robin in relief, when she spotted him.
‘Hello,’ said Strike, holding out his hand to Michael Ellacott, a tall man in horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Sorry I didn’t pick up sooner. I was in the middle of something I couldn’t drop.’
‘What’s happened?’ said Robin.
‘The Franks made their move. What’s going—?’
‘We’re about to take Robin home,’ said Linda. ‘She’s been through—’
‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ said Robin, shrugging off the hand Linda had laid on her arm, ‘I need to tell Cormoran what’s just happened.’
‘He can come back to the flat,’ said Linda, as though this was a favour Strike didn’t deserve.
‘I know he can come back to my flat,’ said Robin, who was rapidly reaching breaking point with her mother, ‘but that’s not what’s going to happen. He and I are going for a drink. Take my keys.’
She thrust them into her father’s hands.
‘You can grab a taxi, and Cormoran can drop me off later. Look – there’s a cab now.’
Robin raised her hand, and the black taxi slowed.
‘I’d rather—’ began Linda.
‘I’m going for a drink with Cormoran. I know you’re worried, Mum, but there’s nothing you can do about this. I’ve got to sort it out.’
‘You can’t blame your mum for being worried,’ said Strike, but judging by Linda’s frigid expression, this effort to ingratiate himself was unsuccessful. Once her parents had been successfully bundled into the cab, Robin waited until the vehicle had drawn away before letting out a huge sigh of relief.
‘Un-bloody-believable.’
‘In fairness—’
‘I really, really need a drink.’
‘There’s a pub up there, I just passed it,’ said Strike.
‘Are you limping?’ said Robin, as they set off.
‘It’s fine, I twisted my knee a bit when I punched Frank One.’
‘Oh God, did—?’
‘It’s all good, police will have got them by now, Mayo’s safe – tell me what happened at the station.’
‘I’m going to need alcohol first,’ said Robin.
The pub was crowded, but a small corner table became available a minute after their entrance. Strike’s bulk, always useful in such situations, ensured that other would-be sitters were blocked from taking it before Robin could.
‘What d’you want?’ he asked Robin, as she sank onto a banquette.
‘Something strong – and could you get me some crisps? I was about to eat a pizza when the police arrived. I haven’t had anything since mid-afternoon.’
Strike returned to the table five minutes later with a neat double whisky, half a pint of lager for himself and six packets of salt and vinegar crisps.
‘Thank you,’ said Robin fervently, reaching for her glass.
‘Right, tell me what happened,’ said Strike, lowering himself onto an uncomfortable stool, but Robin had thrown back half the neat whisky so fast she got some in her windpipe and had to cough for a minute before she could talk again.