Immediately after Barclay had hung up, Strike received a text from Littlejohn, saying that Bigfoot, who rarely went into his office, had chosen today to drive out to the company in Bishop’s Stortford, which lay forty miles away from where Strike was currently standing. Much as Strike had wanted to look Littlejohn in the face when asking him about the omission of Patterson Inc from his CV, he now decided it would be quickest and cleanest to do the job by phone, so called Littlejohn back.
‘Hi,’ said Littlejohn, on answering.
‘Forget the meeting at one,’ Strike told him. ‘We can talk now. Wanted to ask you why you didn’t tell me you worked for Mitch Patterson for three months, before coming to me.’
The immediate response to these words was silence. Strike waited, watching the Franks’ windows.
‘Who told you that?’ said Littlejohn at last.
‘Never mind who told me. Is it true?’
More silence.
‘Yeah,’ said Littlejohn at last.
‘Mind telling me why you didn’t mention it?’
The third long pause didn’t improve Strike’s temper.
‘Listen—’
‘I got the heave ho,’ said Littlejohn.
‘Why?’
‘Patterson didn’t like me.’
‘Why didn’t he?’
‘Dunno,’ said Littlejohn.
‘Did you fuck up?’
‘No… personality clash,’ said Littlejohn.
You haven’t got a fucking personality, though.
‘There was a row, was there?’
‘No,’ said Littlejohn. ‘He just told me he didn’t need me any more.’
Strike was certain there was something he wasn’t being told.
‘There’s another thing,’ he said. ‘What were you doing at the office on Easter Monday?’
‘Receipts,’ said Littlejohn.
‘Pat was off. It was a bank holiday. Nobody should’ve been at the office.’
‘I forgot,’ said Littlejohn.
Strike stood with his phone pressed to his ear, thinking. His gut was issuing a warning, but his brain reminded him they wouldn’t be able to cover all present cases without Littlejohn.
‘I need this job,’ said Littlejohn, speaking unprompted for the first time. ‘The kids are getting settled. I’ve got a mortgage to pay.’
‘I don’t like dishonesty,’ said Strike, ‘and that includes lying by omission.’
‘I didn’t want you thinking I couldn’t handle the work.’
Still frowning, Strike said,
‘Consider this a verbal warning. Any more hiding anything from me, and you’re out.’
‘Understood,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I won’t.’
Strike hung up. Difficult as it was to find new subcontractors of the required quality, he thought he might need to start looking again. Whatever lay behind Littlejohn’s failure to mention his time at Patterson Inc, Strike’s experience in managing people, inside the army and out, had taught him that where there was one lie, there were almost certain to be more.
The phone in his hand now rang. Answering, he heard Pat’s deep, gravelly voice.
‘I’ve got a Colonel Edward Graves on the phone for you.’
‘Put him through,’ said Strike, who’d left a message for Alexander Graves’ parents on an old-fashioned answering machine on Monday morning.
‘Hello?’ said an elderly male voice.
‘Good morning, Colonel Graves,’ said Strike. ‘Cormoran Strike here. Thanks for calling me back.’
‘You’re the detective, yes?’
The voice, which was distinctly upper class, was also suspicious.
‘That’s right. I was hoping I could talk to you about the Universal Humanitarian Church and your son, Alexander.’
‘Yes, so you said in your message. Why?’
‘I’ve been hired by someone who’s trying to get a relative out of the church.’
‘Well, we can’t advise them,’ said the colonel bitterly.
Deciding not to tell Graves that he already knew how badly wrong the plan to extract Alexander had gone, Strike said,
‘I also wondered whether you’d be prepared to talk to me about your granddaughter, Daiyu.’
In the background, Strike heard an elderly female voice, though the words were indistinguishable. Colonel Graves said ‘Gimme a minute, Baba,’ before saying to Strike,
‘We hired a detective ourselves. Man called O’Connor. Do you know him?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Might have retired… all right. We’ll talk to you.’
Taken aback, Strike said,
‘That’s very good of you. I understand you’re in Norfolk?’
‘Garvestone Hall. You can find us on any map.’
‘Would next week suit you?’
Colonel Graves agreed that it would, and a meeting was arranged for the following Tuesday.
As Strike was putting his phone back into his pocket, he saw a sight he hadn’t expected. Both Frankenstein brothers had just emerged from their block of flats, as shabbily dressed as ever, wearing wigs that partially disguised their high foreheads, yet easily recognisable to Strike, who’d become familiar with both their limited stock of clothing and their slightly shambling walks. Intrigued by this paltry effort at disguise, Strike followed them to a bus stop, where after a ten-minute wait, the brothers boarded the number 301 bus. They ascended to the upper deck while Strike remained on the lower, texting Midge to say the Franks were on the move, and that he’d let her know where to meet him to take over surveillance.
Forty-five minutes later, the Franks disembarked at the Beresford Square stop in Woolwich, Strike in pursuit, his eyes on the backs of the badly fitting wigs. After walking for a while, the brothers paused to don gloves, then entered a Sports Direct. Strike had a hunch that the decision not to go to a sports shop nearer their home was part of the same misguided attempt at subterfuge that had made them don wigs, so after texting Midge their current location, he followed them into the shop.
While he hadn’t classified either of the brothers as geniuses, he was rapidly revising his estimate of their intelligence downwards. The younger brother kept glancing up at the security cameras. At one point his wig slipped and he straightened it. They ambled with studied nonchalance around the store, picking up random objects and showing them to each other, before making their way to the climbing section. Strike now started taking photos.
After a whispered conversation, the Franks selected a heavy length of rope. A muttered disagreement then ensued, apparently over the merits of two different mallets. Finally they selected a rubber one, then headed for the checkout, paid for the goods, then ambled out of the store, unwieldly packages under their arms, Strike in pursuit. Shortly afterwards, the brothers came to rest in a McDonald’s. Strike felt it inadvisable to follow them in there, so he skulked on the street watching the entrance. He’d just texted Midge to update her when his phone rang yet again, this time from an unknown number.
‘Cormoran Strike.’
‘Yeah,’ said an aggressive male voice. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Who’s this?’ Strike asked. He could hear background clanging and male voices.
‘Jordan Reaney. My sister says you’ve been pestering my fucking family.’
‘There’s been no pestering,’ said Strike. ‘I called your ex-wife to see wheth—’
‘She’s not my fucking ex, she’s me wife, so why’re you pestering her?’
‘There was no pestering,’ repeated Strike. ‘I was trying to get a message to you, because I wanted to talk to you about the UHC.’
‘The fuck for?’
‘Because I’m conducting an investi—’
‘You keep the fuck away from my wife and my sister, all right?’
‘I’ve got no intention of going near either of them. Would you be prepar—?’
‘I’ve got nuffing to fucking say about nuffing, all right?’ said Reaney, now almost shouting.
‘Not even pigs?’ asked Strike.
‘What the fuck – why pigs? Who’s talked about fucking pigs?’
‘Your wife told me you have nightmares about pigs.’
A presentiment made Strike move the mobile slightly away from his ear. Sure enough, Reaney began to bellow.
‘THE FUCK DID SHE TELL YOU THAT FOR? I’LL FUCKING BREAK YOUR LEGS IF YOU GO TALKING TO MY FUCKING WIFE AGAIN, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKING—’
There ensued a series of loud bangs. Strike surmised that Reaney was bashing the handset of the prison phone against the wall. A second man yelled, ‘OI, REANEY!’ Scuffling noises followed. The line went dead.
Strike put his mobile back into his pocket. For a full ten minutes he stood vaping and thinking, watching the door of the McDonald’s. Finally, he pulled out his phone again and called his old friend Shanker.
‘Awright Bunsen?’ said the familiar voice, answering after a couple of rings.
‘How’s Angel?’ asked Strike.
‘Started treatment last week,’ said Shanker.
‘Did she get to see her dad?’
‘Yeah. He didn’t wanna – cunt – but I persuaded ’im.’
‘Good,’ said Strike. ‘Listen, I need a favour.’
‘Name it,’ said Shanker.
‘It’s about a guy called Kurt Jordan Reaney.’
‘And?’
‘I was hoping we could talk about that face to face,’ said Strike. ‘Would you be free later today? I can come to you.’
Shanker being amenable, they agreed to meet later that afternoon in an East End café well known to both of them, and Strike hung up.
33
Slight digressions from the good cannot be avoided…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Having handed over surveillance of the Franks to Midge, Strike took the Tube to Bethnal Green station. He’d gone barely ten yards along the road when his ever-busy phone vibrated in his pocket. Drawing aside to let other people pass, he saw yet another text from Bijou Watkins.
You less busy yet? Cos here’s what you’re missing.
She’d attached two photographs of herself in lingerie, taken with a mobile in the mirror. Strike gave these only a cursory glance before closing then deleting the message. He had no intention of ever meeting her again, but those photographs might tend to weaken his resolve, because she looked undeniably fabulous in a bright red bra, sus