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.’
‘Like what?’
Littlejohn pulled his own phone out of his pocket, tapped something into it, then shoved it across the desk. Strike found himself looking down at a photograph of Midge and Tasha Mayo laughing together outside Mayo’s Notting Hill house, both holding bags of Waitrose shopping.
‘Scroll right,’ said Littlejohn.
Strike did so and saw a picture of Midge leaving Mayo’s house by evening.
‘The second one was last night,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I was going to give it to Mitch.’
‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation,’ said Strike, who was sure of nothing of the sort. ‘If that’s your best shot—’
‘It’s not – I’ve got stuff on Patterson.’
‘I’ll get it myself if I want it.’
‘No, listen,’ said Littlejohn again, ‘I can get you something for that church case. Mitch has got a recording. He didn’t hand it over when Edensor sacked him.’
‘What recording would this be?’ asked the sceptical Strike.
‘Of that Kevin whatever he was called, who got out of the church – Kevin Purvis?’
‘Pirbright,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah, exactly. Mitch got an undercover recording of him.’
‘Why would Patterson covertly record Pirbright, when Pirbright had already told Colin Edensor everything he knew?’
‘They fell out, Pirbright and Edensor,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Didn’t they? Before Pirbright got shot? They weren’t talking to each other.’
Strike’s interest level rose slightly, because it was true Sir Colin and Kevin Pirbright had argued, then had little contact, in the interval between Kevin heckling Giles Harmon at his book reading, and Pirbright’s murder.
‘There was an email, I think it was an email, Pirbright sent to Edensor,’ Littlejohn went on, his expression pleading, ‘where Pirbright said he was piecing things together he’d repressed or something, right? Mitch was getting nowhere on the case, so he sent Farah to chat up Pirbright and see what new stuff she could get out of him. Pirbright wasn’t right mentally, see, so Mitch was worried if they interviewed him over the counter, Pirbright might blab on his blog. He was getting too mouthy.’
‘Why didn’t Patterson hand over this recording to Edensor?’
‘Because it’s shit quality. You can’t hear much. Farah fucked up, but she told Mitch afterwards Pirbright didn’t have anything useful to say anyway.’
‘And this is the valuable bit of evidence you think will persuade me to keep you in employment? A recording you can’t hear, of a conversation containing nothing useful?’
‘Yeah, but it’s you, isn’t it?’ said Littlejohn, desperate. ‘You can do something with it.’
If there was one thing that truly added insult to injury, in Strike’s opinion, it was attempts to flatter in the aftermath of proven treachery. Once again, it cost him some effort to suppress a straightforward ‘go fuck yourself’.
‘If it’s useless, why didn’t Patterson chuck it?’
‘He did – well, he chucked it in the safe and forgot about it. I saw it in there last time I opened it.’
‘All right,’ said Strike slowly, ‘bring me that recording and we can have another talk about your employment prospects.’
A very short fucking talk.
‘Thank you,’ said Littlejohn effusively. ‘Thank you, Cormoran, I can’t thank you enough. I really need this job, you don’t understand what it’s been like for me, the strain of everything, but as long as I’ve got regular work I can work something out, get a loan or something – you won’t regret this. I’m a loyal man,’ said Littlejohn shamelessly, ‘I don’t forget a good turn. You won’t have anyone more dedicated to this agency—’
‘You can save all that. You haven’t brought back the recording yet.’
Once Littlejohn was safely out of the office, Strike called Midge.
‘Wotcha,’ she said, answering after a couple of rings.
‘Want to tell me why you’re going shopping with our client?’
‘What?’ said Midge, startled.
‘You. Tasha Mayo. Waitrose,’ said Strike, barely keeping a lid on his temper.
‘I weren’t shopping with her,’ said Midge, sounding incredulous. ‘One of them split, that’s all.’
‘One of what split?’
‘One of her bags, what d’you think? I just helped her pick it all up.’
‘And how’s that keeping undercover, helping her pick up all her shopping?’
‘Fook’s sake, Strike,’ said Midge, now sounding annoyed, ‘what were I s’posed to do, stand there and watch her chasing tins all over the road? I’d’ve looked more suspicious if I hadn’t helped her. It’s what women do, help each other out.’
‘Why were you leaving her house last night?’
‘It weren’t bloody night, it was barely nine o’clock – and how d’you—?’
‘Answer the bloody question.’
‘She called me,’ said Midge, now sounding nettled. ‘She heard noises outside the back door. Her brother’s gone back up north and she’s jumpy being there alone, after you put the fear of God into her about the Franks.’
‘What was the noise?’
‘A cat knocked off a dustbin lid.’
‘How long were you inside her house?’
‘Dunno, ’bout an hour?’
‘The fuck were you doing in there for an hour?’
‘I told you, she’s jumpy! How d’you even—?’
‘You were photographed. Littlejohn’s just shown me the pictures.’
‘That fookin’ arsehole,’ gasped Midge.
‘What happened while you were inside the house?’
‘The fook are you insinuating?’ said Midge hotly.
‘I’m asking you a straightforward question.’
‘We had a coffee, all right?’
‘And how the bloody hell did you not notice Littlejohn was watching the house?’
‘He weren’t there. It must’ve been someone else.’
‘I’m taking you off the Mayo case,’ said Strike. ‘You can stick with Toy Boy going forwards.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ said Midge. ‘Ask Tasha!’
‘It’s what it’ll look like to the papers,’ said Strike.
‘Did you think of that when you shagged that lawyer with the fake tits?’
‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said Strike, through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve told you how it’s going to be.