‘I don’t—’
‘He’s slept with bloody Bijou Watkins! Well – I say “slept” – apparently it was standing up, against her bedroom wall.’
Robin realised she was gaping, and closed her mouth.
‘He – hasn’t mentioned it to me.’
‘No, I’ll bet he bloody hasn’t,’ said Ilsa angrily. ‘She made up some bullshit reason to get his number off me, and I couldn’t think of any way of not giving it to her, but I thought he’d have the sense, after meeting her and seeing what she’s like, of not going within a hundred miles of her. You need to warn him: she’s insane. She can’t keep her bloody mouth shut, half of Chambers will have heard all the details by now—’
‘Ilsa, I can’t tell him who to sleep with. Or shag standing up against a bedroom wall,’ Robin added.
‘But she’s a total nutcase! All she wants is a rich husband and a baby, she’s completely open about it!’
‘Strike’s not rich,’ said Robin.
‘She might not realise that, after all those high-profile cases he keeps solving. You’ve got to warn him—’
‘Ilsa, I can’t. You warn him, if you want to. His sex life’s hardly my business.’
Ilsa groaned.
‘But why her, if he wants a displacement fuck?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin, completely honestly, and then, dropping her voice, she asked, ‘and what d’you mean, a “displacement fuck”?’
‘Oh, please,’ said Ilsa irritably. ‘You know perfectly well what—shit, that’s my QC, I’ll have to go. Bye.’
This conversation left Robin watching Frank One’s reflection in the dirty train window, prey to many conflicting emotions she wasn’t sure she wanted to disentangle. A very vivid mental picture had presented itself to her while Ilsa talked, of Bijou in her shocking pink dress, long tanned legs wrapped around Strike, and it wasn’t immediately possible to erase the image, especially as her imagination had given Strike quite a hairy arse.
The train stopped at last at Waterloo East. Robin followed her target on foot and then onto a Tube train, where he disembarked at Piccadilly Circus.
They were now so close to Theatreland that Robin’s hopes were rising that she’d picked the right brother to follow. However, instead of heading towards Shaftesbury Avenue and the theatre where Tasha Mayo’s play was showing, Frank One walked into Soho, and ten minutes later, entered a comic-book shop.
As everyone she could see through the windows was male, Robin decided she’d made herself conspicuous by following him, so she retreated a few yards and took out her phone to call the number Strike had sent her.
An out-of-breath voice, slightly cracked, either from age, smoking, or both, answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that Mrs Kennett?’ said Robin.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Robin Ellacott. I’m a private detective.’
‘You’re a what?’ said the elderly woman.
‘A private detective,’ said Robin.
Understandably, there was a short pause.
‘What d’you want?’ said the voice on the end of the line suspiciously.
‘I’ve been hired by somebody who’s very concerned about a relative of theirs, who’s a member of the Universal Humanitarian Church. I was hoping you might talk to me about the UHC. Just for background. You used to live at Chapman Farm, didn’t you?’
‘How d’you know that?’ said Sheila Kennett sharply; she certainly seemed to have all her faculties.
‘Just from records,’ said Robin, deliberately vague: she didn’t want to bandy about the fact that Strike had obtained census reports.
‘That was a long time ago,’ said Sheila Kennett.
‘We’re really just after background,’ said Robin. ‘I think you were there at the same time as the Pirbright family?’
‘I was, yeah,’ said Sheila, still sounding suspicious.
‘Well, we’re looking into some claims Kevin Pirbright made about the church, so we wondered whether—’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘I – yes, he is,’ said Robin.
‘Yeah, I saw it in the paper. Wondered if it was our Kevin,’ said Sheila. ‘Have they got who did it yet?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Robin.
There was another short pause.
‘All right,’ said Sheila. ‘I don’t mind talking. I’ve got nothing to lose, not any more.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Robin, then thought how insensitive that had sounded and added, ‘I mean, thank you. You’re up in Coventry, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How would next Thursday suit you? A week tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Sheila. ‘Robin, did you say your name was?’
‘That’s right. Robin Ellacott.’
‘Man’s name,’ said Sheila. ‘Why did your parents give you a man’s name?’
‘I’ve never asked,’ said Robin, with a laugh.
‘Hm. All right then. What time?’
‘Would midday be all right?’ asked Robin, rapidly calculating the distance to Coventry.
‘Yeah. All right. I’ll have the kettle on.’
‘Thank you so much. I’ll see you then!’ said Robin.
Robin texted Strike to tell him she’d arranged the interview with Sheila Kennett, then crossed the road, the better to watch the comic-book storefront.
The day was cool and cloudy, and Robin was glad of her beanie hat. She’d only just registered how close she was to the Rupert Court Temple when she spotted four young people with collecting tins, heading into Berwick Street.
Robin recognised Will Edensor at once. He looked ill and defeated, not to mention very thin. The shadows under his eyes, which Robin could see even from the other side of the street, gave him an unpleasant likeness to the image of the Stolen Prophet she’d seen on the temple ceiling. Like his companions, he was wearing an orange tabard printed with the church’s logo, which was repeated on their collecting tins.
The other man in the group seemed to be giving instructions. Unlike the other three, he was overweight, and wore his hair in a straggly bob. He pointed along the street, and the two girls headed off obediently in the direction indicated, whereas Will remained where he was. His demeanour made Robin think of a donkey, used to abuse, and no longer capable of protest.
The second man turned back to Will and delivered what looked like a lecture, through which Will nodded mechanically without making eye contact. Robin yearned to get close enough to hear what was going on, but dared not make herself recognisable to either of them. Before the lecture had finished, Frank One emerged from the comic-book shop, and Robin had no choice but to follow.
14
Nine in the second place means:
Penetration under the bed.
Priests and magicians are used in great number.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
The Westminster Arms, where Strike had agreed to meet journalist Fergus Robertson, lay close beside Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. As Strike walked towards the pub he felt small twinges of pain emanating from the back of his stump. Although his hamstring had previously been torn, it hadn’t given any trouble for the last few months, largely because it was being asked to support a lot less weight. He knew exactly what had caused this mild recurrence of symptoms: the necessity of holding up Bijou Watkins, who’d expressed a loud and drunken preference for being nailed up against the bedroom wall the moment they’d entered her flat on Saturday night.