‘Say it, then,’ said Strike irritably.
‘A journalist from the Mail called me. They’re trying to run some sleazy profile of you, saying you sleep with female clients. Like father, like son, that kind of thing.’
Strike could feel the tension gripping every part of his body.
‘I told her I didn’t believe you’d ever sleep with a client, that you’re very honourable and that you’ve got strict ethics about that kind of thing. And I said you’re nothing like your father.’
Strike couldn’t have said what he was feeling, except a dim surprise mixed with some ghostly vestige of what he’d once felt for her, resurrected by the sorrowful voice he’d sometimes heard at the end of their worst fights, when even Charlotte’s ineradicable love of conflict left her spent and atypically honest.
‘I know they’ve been to a few of your exes as well,’ said Charlotte.
‘Who?’ said Strike.
‘Madeline, Ciara and Elin,’ said Charlotte. ‘Madeline and Elin have both said they’ve never hired a private detective and refused to give any other comment. Ciara says she just laughed when the Mail called her, then hung up.’
‘How the hell did they know I was with Elin?’ said Strike, more to himself than Charlotte. That affair, which had ended acrimoniously, had been conducted with what he’d thought was complete discretion on both their parts.
‘Darling, people talk,’ sighed Charlotte. ‘You should know that, seeing as it’s your job to make them. But I just wanted you to know, nobody’s cooperating and I’ve done what I could. You and I were together longest, so – so that should count for something.’
Strike tried to find something to say and finally mustered a ‘Well – thanks.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Charlotte. ‘I know you think I want to ruin your life, but I don’t. I don’t.’
‘I never thought you wanted to ruin my life,’ said Strike, now rubbing his face with his hand. ‘I just thought you didn’t mind messing with it a bit.’
‘What d’you—?’
‘Shit-stirring,’ said Strike. ‘With Madeline.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlotte. ‘Yeah… I did do that, a bit.’
The answer forced a reluctant laugh out of Strike.
‘How are you?’ he said. ‘How’s your health?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I mean, they’ve caught it early.’
‘OK, well, thanks for doing what you could with the Mail. I’ll just have to hope they haven’t got enough to run with.’
‘Bluey,’ she said urgently, and his heart sank.
‘What?’
‘Could we have a drink? Just a drink. To talk.’
‘No,’ he said wearily.
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he said, ‘it’s over. I’ve told you this, repeatedly. We’re through.’
‘And we can’t even stay friends?’
‘Jesus Christ, Charlotte, we were never friends. That was the whole trouble. We were never fucking friends.’
‘How can you say—?’
‘Because it’s true,’ he said forcefully. ‘Friends don’t do to each other what we did. Friends have each other’s backs. They want each other to be OK. They don’t rip each other apart every time there’s a problem.’
Her breathing was ragged in his ear.
‘You’re with Robin, aren’t you?’
‘My love life’s none of your business any more,’ said Strike. ‘I said it in the pub the other week, I wish you well, but I don’t—’
Charlotte hung up.
Strike replaced the mobile on his kitchen table and reached for his vape again. Several minutes passed before he was able to subdue his disordered thoughts. Finally, he returned his attention to the rota on the screen in front of him, his eyes fixed on the name Littlejohn, and after some further rumination, picked up his mobile again, and once again called Shanker.
48
… the inferior man’s wickedness is visited upon himself. His house is split apart. A law of nature is at work here.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Shortly after midday on Tuesday, Strike was to be found rising up the escalator at Sloane Square station, prepared to take over surveillance on Bigfoot, who was once again indulging in his favourite pastime at the large hotel full of sex workers. Among the small, framed posters on the escalator walls, many of which were advertising West End shows and grooming products, Strike noticed several featuring a flattering headshot of ‘Papa J’, the UHC’s heart-shaped logo and the legend Do you admit the possibility?
The detective had just emerged from the station into the rainy street when his mobile rang and he heard Shah’s voice, which was oddly thickened.
‘I’b god hib.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘God hib on cambra, coming ouddob a room, girl behind hib in stoggings and nudding else – fug, sorry, I’b bleeding.’
‘What’s happened?’ said Strike, though he thought he knew.
‘He punjed be in da fugging face.’
Five minutes later, Strike entered the Rose and Crown on Lower Sloane Street to find his best-looking subcontractor sitting in a corner with a split lip, a puffy left eye and a swollen nose, a pint on the table in front of him.
‘Id fine, id nod broggen,’ said Shah, gesturing to his nose and forestalling Strike’s first question.
‘Ice,’ was Strike’s one word response, and he headed for the bar, returning with a zero-alcohol beer for himself, a glass of ice and a clean beer towel he’d cadged from the curious barmaid. Shah tipped the ice onto the towel, wrapped it up and pressed the bundle to his face.
‘Cheerd. Der you go,’ Shah said, pushing his mobile across the table. The screen was smashed, but the picture of Bigfoot was sharp and clear behind the broken glass. He was caught in the act of yelling, mouth wide open, fist raised, a near-naked girl looking terrified behind him.
‘Now, that,’ said Strike, ‘is what I call evidence. Excellent work. Heating engineer ruse worked, then?’
‘Didn’ deed id. Followed a fat bloke inside, ride after Bigfood. Hug around in de corridor. Caud hib coming out. He’d quig on hid feet for a big lad.’
‘Bloody well done,’ said Strike. ‘Sure you don’t want to see a doctor?’
‘Doe, I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll be happy to see the back of this case,’ said Strike. ‘Midge is right, the client’s a pain in the arse. S’pose she’ll get her multi-million settlement now.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shah. ‘New case, den? Ob the waiting list?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘Even wid the Franks being a three-perdon job now?’
‘Heard about the snake, did you?’
‘Yeah, Barglay dold be.’
‘Well, they’re not a three-person job any more. Back to two.’
‘How gum?’
‘Because I’m having the third party watched by a couple of cash-in-hand blokes,’ said Strike. ‘They don’t often play on the side of the angels, but they’re experienced at surveillance – usually casing places to rob. It’s costing me a fortune, but I want to prove Patterson’s behind it. That fucker will rue the day he tried this on me.’
‘Wadz hid problem wid you, anyway?’
‘It pisses him off I’m better than him,’ said Strike.
Dev laughed but stopped abruptly, wincing.
‘I owe you a new phone,’ said Strike. ‘Give me the receipt and I’ll reimburse you. You should get home and rest up. Send me that picture and I’ll call Bigfoot’s wife when I get back to the office.’
A sudden thought now occurred to Strike.
‘How old’s your wife?’
‘Wad?’ said Shah, looking up.
‘I’ve been trying to track down a thirty-eight-year-old woman, for the UHC case,’ said Strike. ‘She’s used at least three aliases that I know of. Where do women that age hang out online, d’you know?’
‘Bubsned, probably,’ said Shah.
‘What?’
‘Bub – fuggit – Mumsnet,’ said Dev, enunciating with difficulty. ‘Aisha’d alwayd on dere. Or Fadeboog.’
‘Mumsnet and Facebook,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, good thinking. I’ll try them.’
He arrived back at the office half an hour later to find Pat there alone, restocking the fridge with milk, the radio playing hits of the sixties.
‘Dev’s just got punched in the face by Bigfoot,’ said Strike, hanging up his coat.
‘What?’ croaked Pat, glaring at Strike as though he was personally responsible.
‘He’s fine,’ Strike added, moving past her to the kettle. ‘Going home to ice his nose. Who’s next on the waiting list?’
‘That weirdo with the mother.’
‘They all have mothers, don’t they?’ said Strike, dropping a teabag into a mug.
‘This one wants his mother watched,’ said Pat. ‘Thinks she’s frittering away his inheritance on a toyboy.’
‘Ah, right. If you pull the file for me, I’ll give him a ring. Has Littlejohn showed his face in here today?’
‘No,’ said Pat, stiffening.
‘Has he called?’
‘No.’
‘Let me know if he does either. I’ll be through here. Don’t worry about interrupting me, I’ll just be trying to find a needle in a haystack on Facebook and Mumsnet.’
Once settled at his desk, Strike made his two phone calls. Bigfoot’s wife was gratifyingly ecstatic to see concrete evidence of her wealthy husband’s infidelity. The man who wanted his mother’s movement’s watched, and who had an upper-class accent so pronounced Strike found it hard to believe he wasn’t putting it on, was also delighted to hear from the detective.
‘Ay was thinkin’ of gettin’ in touch with Patters’ns if I didn’t hyar from yeh soon.’
‘You don’t want to use them, they’re shit,’ said Strike, and was rewarded with a surprised guffaw.
Having asked Pat to email the newest client a contract, Strike returned to his desk, opened the notebook in which he’d written every possible combination of the first names and surnames he knew Cherie Gittins had used in youth, logged into Facebook using a fake profile, and began his methodical search.
As he’d expected, the problem wasn’t too few results, but too many. There were multiple results for every name he tried, not only in Britain, but also in Australia, New Zealand and America. Wishing he could hire people to do this donkey work for him, rather than pay two of Shanker’s criminal mates to watch Littlejohn, he followed – or, in the case of private accounts, sent follower requests to – every woman whose photo might plausibly be that of a thirty-eight-year-old Cherie Gittins.