The pizzas had only just been delivered when the buzzer beside the flat door sounded.
‘Robin Ellacott?’ said a tinny male voice, when Robin pressed the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘This is PC Blair Harding. Could we come in?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Robin, pressing the button to let them through the outer door downstairs.
‘What do the police want with you?’ said Linda, looking alarmed.
‘It’s OK,’ said Robin soothingly. ‘I’ve been waiting for this – I gave a statement about something I witnessed at Chapman Farm.’
‘What thing?’
‘Mum, it’s fine,’ said Robin, ‘it’s to do with someone who wasn’t getting proper medical attention. The police said they’d get back to me.’
Rather than be drawn into further explanations, Robin stepped out onto the landing to wait for the police to arrive, wondering how strange the police might think her if she asked for the update on Jacob downstairs, in their car.
The lift doors opened a couple of minutes later to reveal a white male officer and a far shorter Asian policewoman, whose black hair was pulled back into a bun. Both looked serious, and Robin felt suddenly anxious: was Jacob dead?
‘Hi,’ she said apprehensively.
‘Robin Ellacott?’
‘Yes – is this is about Jacob?’
‘That’s right,’ said the policewoman, glancing at the open door to Robin’s flat. ‘Is that where you live?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, disconcerted by the sternness of the officers’ expressions.
‘Can we go in?’ said the female officer.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin.
Linda and Michael, who’d both got to their feet, looked worried to see the two officers entering the flat after their daughter.
‘These are my parents,’ said Robin.
‘Hi,’ said the male officer. ‘I’m PC Harding and this is PC Khan.’
‘Hello,’ said Linda uncertainly.
‘You obviously know what this is about,’ said PC Khan, looking at Robin.
‘Yes. Jacob. What’s happened?’
‘We’re here to invite you down to the station, Mizz Ellacott,’ said PC Harding.
Robin, who was experiencing a slow-motion lift-drop of the stomach without knowing exactly why, said,
‘Can’t you just tell me what’s happened here?’
‘We’re inviting you to an interview under caution,’ said PC Khan.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Robin. ‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’
‘No,’ said PC Harding. ‘This would be a voluntary interview.’
‘What about?’ said Linda, before Robin could get the words out.
‘We’ve had an accusation of child abuse,’ said PC Harding.
‘Against – against me?’ said Robin.
‘That’s right,’ said PC Harding.
‘What?’ exploded Linda.
‘It’s a voluntary interview,’ said PC Harding again.
Robin was vaguely aware that Linda was talking, but couldn’t take in what she was saying.
‘Fine,’ said Robin calmly. ‘Let me get my coat.’
However, the first thing she did was to go back to the table, pick up a pen and scribble down Strike’s mobile number, the only one she knew by heart other than her own.
‘Phone Strike,’ she told her father, pressing the number into his hands.
‘Where are you taking her?’ Linda demanded of the officers. ‘We want to come!’
PC Khan gave the name of the police station.
‘We’ll find it, Linda,’ said Michael, because it was obvious to everyone that Linda intended either to force her way into the police car or ride bumper-to-bumper after it.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Robin reassured her parents, pulling on her coat. ‘I’ll sort this out. Phone Strike,’ she added firmly to her father, before picking up her keys and following the police out of the flat.
93
The seeds are the first imperceptible beginning of movement, the first trace of good fortune (or misfortune) that shows itself. The superior man perceives the seeds…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
At the precise moment Robin was getting into a police car on Blackhorse Road, Strike was sitting in his BMW in Bexleyheath watching the Frank brothers climbing into their old van, which was parked a short distance from their block of flats. Having let the van set off, Strike set off in pursuit, then called Midge.
‘Wotcha.’
‘Where’s Mayo?’
‘With me. Well, not with me – I’m waiting for her to come out of her gym.’
‘I told her to vary her bloody routine.’
‘It’s the only evening she’s got off from the theatre, and it’s less crowded this—’
‘I think tonight might be the night. They’ve just got in the van with what look like balaclavas in their hands.’
‘Oh, fook,’ said Midge.
‘Listen, if Mayo’s up for it – and only if she is – I say proceed as normal. Let this happen. I’ll pull Barclay off Toy Boy to make sure we’ve got enough manpower and we’ll get the fuckers in the attempt.’
‘She’ll be up for it,’ said Midge, who sounded excited. ‘She just wants this over.’
‘Good. Keep me posted on your location. I’ve got eyes on them now and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Gonna ring Barclay.’
Strike hung up, but before he could contact Barclay, an unknown number called him. Strike refused the call and pressed Barclay’s number instead.
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside Mrs Moneybags’ house. She was gettin’ pretty fuckin’ frisky wi’ Toy Boy on the way up the street.’
‘Well, I need you in Notting Hill, pronto. Looks like the Franks are planning their big move. Balaclavas, both of them in the van—’
‘Great, I fancy punchin’ someone. The mother-in-law’s staying. See ye there.’
No sooner had Barclay cut the call, Strike’s phone rang again. He jabbed at the dashboard with his finger, his eyes still on the van now separated from his BMW by a Peugeot 108.
‘Who’s been pissing off the UHC, then?’ said an amused voice.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Fergus Robertson.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike, surprised to hear from the journalist, ‘you. Why’re you asking?’
‘Because your Wikipedia page just tripled in length,’ said the journalist, who sounded as though he’d had a couple of drinks. ‘I recognise the house style. Beating girlfriends, fucking clients, drink problem, daddy issues – what’ve you got on them?’
‘Nothing I can tell you yet,’ said Strike, ‘but that doesn’t mean I won’t have something eventually.’
Whichever Frank brother was driving had either realised he was being followed, or was inept: he’d just earned several blasts of the horn from the Peugeot for indicating late. Robertson’s news, though deeply unwelcome to Strike, would have to be processed later.
‘Just thought I’d let you know,’ said the journalist. ‘We had an agreement, though, right? I get the story if—’
‘Yeah, fine,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve got to go.’
He hung up.
The Franks definitely seemed to be heading for Notting Hill, Strike thought, as they entered the Blackwall Tunnel. The same unknown number as before called again. He ignored it because the Franks had just sped up, and while this might mean they were worried about missing Tasha on her way back from the gym, Strike remained concerned that they’d realised he was following them.
His phone rang yet again: Prudence, his sister.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Strike growled at the speaker, ‘I’m busy.’
He let the call go to voicemail, but Prudence called back. Again, Strike ignored the call, although vaguely perturbed; Prudence had never done this before. When she called back a third time, Strike picked up.
‘I’m kind of in the middle of something,’ he told her. ‘Could I call you back later?’
‘This will be short,’ said Prudence. To his surprise, she sounded angry.
‘OK, what’s up?’
‘I asked you very clearly to stay away from my client who was in the UHC!’
‘What are you talking about? I haven’t been near them.’
‘Oh, really,’ said Prudence coldly. ‘She’s just told me somebody approached her online, probing her for information. She’s absolutely distraught. Whoever it was threatened her with the name of a woman she knew in the church.’
‘I don’t know who your client is,’ said Strike, eyes on the van ahead, ‘and I haven’t been threatening anyone online.’
‘Who else would have tracked her down and told her he knew she’d met this woman? Corm?’ she added, when he didn’t answer immediately.
‘If,’ said Strike, who’d just done some rapid mental deduction, ‘she had a Pinterest page—’
‘So it was you?’
‘I didn’t know she was your client,’ Strike said, now aggravated. The unknown number that kept calling was trying to get through again. ‘I saw her drawings and left a couple of comments, that’s all. I had no idea who was behind the acc—I’ve got to go,’ he said, cutting the call, as the Franks sped through a red light, leaving Strike stuck behind a Hyundai with a large dent in its rear.
‘FUCK,’ bellowed Strike, watching impotently as the Franks sped out of sight.
The unknown number called yet again.
‘Fuck off,’ said Strike, refusing the call and instead ringing Midge, who answered immediately. ‘Where are you?’
‘Tasha’s showering.’
‘OK, well, don’t let her leave the gym until you hear from me. Barclay’s on his way, but the fuckers just ran a red light and I’ve lost them. They might’ve known I was tailing them. Stay where you are until I give the word.’
The Hyundai moved off and Strike, now choosing his own route to Notting Hill, called Barclay.
‘I’m nearly there,’ said the Scot.
‘I’m not, I lost the bastards. They might’ve spotted me.’
‘You sure? They’re bloody thick.’
‘Even morons get it right occasionally.’
‘Think they’ll abort?’
‘Possibly, but we should assume it’s happening. Midge and Mayo are waiting in the gym until I tell them to go. Call me if you spot the van.’
Mercifully, the unknown number that kept pestering Strike appeared to have given up. He drove as fast as he could without incurring a speeding ticket in the direction of Notting Hill, trying to guess where the Franks might attempt to grab Tasha Mayo, and was ten minutes from her house, the sun now setting in earnest, when Barclay called.