He thought he caught a sob as he reached the front door, but by making a noisy business of opening it, he could credibly claim not to have heard.
Having left in plenty of time, Strike made a detour to a handy McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and a large coffee, which he consumed at an unwiped table, surrounded by other early Saturday risers. A young man with a boil on the back of his neck was reading the
Drawing out his phone, Strike Googled “Winn marriage.” The news stories popped up immediately:
The stories from major newspapers were all factual and on the short side, a few padded out with details of Della’s impressive career within politics and outside. The press’s lawyers would, of course, be particularly careful around the Winns just now, with their super-injunction still in place. Strike finished his McMuffin in two bites, jammed an unlit cigarette in his mouth and limped out of the restaurant. Out on the pavement he lit up, then brought up the website of a well-known and scurrilous political blogger on his phone.
The brief paragraph had been written only a few hours previously.
Which creepy Westminster couple known to share a predilection for youthful employees are rumored to be splitting at last? He is about to lose access to the nubile political wannabes on whom he has preyed so long, but she has already found a handsome young “helper” to ease the pain of separation.
Less than forty minutes later, Strike emerged from Barons Court Tube station to lean up against the pillar-box in front of the entrance. Cutting a solitary figure beneath the Art Nouveau lettering and open segmented pediment of the grand station behind him, he took out his phone again and continued to read about the Winns’ separation. They had been married over thirty years. The only couple he knew who had been together that long were the aunt and uncle back in Cornwall, who had served as surrogate parents to Strike and his sister during those regular intervals when his mother had been unwilling or unable to care for them.
A familiar roar and rattle made Strike look up. The ancient Land Rover that Robin had taken off her parents’ hands was trundling towards him. The sight of Robin’s bright gold head behind the wheel caught the tired and faintly depressed Strike off-guard. He experienced a wave of unexpected happiness.
“Morning,” said Robin, thinking that Strike looked terrible as he opened the door and shoved in a holdall. “Oh, sod off,” she added, as a driver behind her slammed on his horn, aggravated by the time Strike was taking to get inside.
“Sorry… leg’s giving me trouble. Dressed in a hurry.”
“No problem—
Finally dropping down into the passenger seat, Strike slammed the door and Robin pulled away from the curb.
“Any trouble getting away?” he asked.
“What d’you—?”
“The journalist.”
“Oh,” she said. “No—he’s gone. Given up.”
Strike wondered just how difficult Matthew had been about Robin giving up a Saturday for work.
“Heard about the Winns?” he asked her.
“No, what’s happened?”
“They’ve split up.”
“
“Yep. In all the papers. Listen to this…”
He read aloud the blind item on the political website.
“God,” said Robin quietly.
“I had a couple of interesting calls last night,” Strike said, as they sped towards the M4.
“Who from?”
“One from Izzy, the other from Barclay. Izzy got a letter from Geraint yesterday,” said Strike.
“Really?” said Robin.
“Yeah. It was sent to Chiswell House a few days back, not her London flat, so she only opened it when she went back to Woolstone. I got her to scan and email it to me. Want to hear?”
“Go on,” said Robin.
“‘My very dear Isabella—’”
“Ugh,” said Robin, with a small shudder.
“‘As I hope you will understand,’” read Strike, “‘Della and I did not feel it appropriate to contact you in the immediate, shocking aftermath of your father’s death. We do so now in a spirit of friendliness and compassion.’”
“If you need to point that out…”
“‘Della and I may have had political and personal differences with Jasper, but I hope we never forgot that he was a family man, and we are aware that your personal loss will be severe. You ran his office with courtesy and efficiency and our little corridor will be the poorer for your absence.’”
“He always cut Izzy dead!” said Robin.
“Exactly what Izzy said on the phone last night,” replied Strike. “Stand by, you’re about to get a mention.
