‘And why would your friend have changed his name and gone to work in a silver shop?’
‘Because – it’s complicated.’
‘Have you reported him missing?’
‘Yes, of course, but the police aren’t helping
She broke off, then said in a higher-pitched voice.
‘Look, I
Strike, Robin and their subcontractors had a name for the kind of people who’d emailed and phoned their office in increasing numbers as the agency’s profile grew, desperate to tell the detectives that they were being spied on by domestic appliances, that Satanic rings were being run out of Westminster, or that they were in relationships with celebrities who were unaccountably withholding their affections due to malign forces: Gatesheads. The distinguishing characteristics of a Gateshead were an irrational belief, a dislike of common sense questions and an inability to contemplate alternative explanations for their dilemmas. The woman sitting opposite Strike was currently presenting a classic set of symptoms.
‘You said Sir Daniel Gayle’s daughter works for you,’ Strike said, hoping to unravel the problem by tugging on a different thread. ‘What exactly—?’
‘I’ve got a restaurant,’ said Decima. ‘The Happy Carrot, on Sloane Street. She’s my maître d’.’
Strike happened to know the restaurant in question, which, in spite of the name, wasn’t a vegan café but a very well-reviewed and expensive eatery offering organically produced food, to which Strike had recently tailed an unfaithful commercial pilot and his mistress. Unless Decima was lying about being Valentine’s sister she came from money: the Longcasters were a very wealthy family, and Decima and Valentine’s father, whom Strike had never met, but about whom he knew far more than he’d ever wanted to, owned one of the most expensive private members’ clubs in London. Trying yet another tack, he asked,
‘How well did you know the man you think was the body in the vault?’
‘
To Strike’s consternation, something now stirred beneath Decima’s poncho, as though her breasts had developed independent motion. Then, making Strike jump, an ear-splitting screech echoed through the kitchen.
‘Oh God!’ said Decima in panic, scrambling to her feet. ‘I hoped he’d sleep—’
She now struggled out of her poncho, which caused her fine hair to stand up in the static, to reveal a very small baby strapped to her in a fleecy sling.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone about him!’ Decima told Strike frantically over the baby’s squalling. ‘
Strike’s disconcerted expression appeared to trigger still more panic in Decima.
‘He’s mine! I can show you the birth certificate! I had him three weeks ago! But nobody knows about him, and you
Robin had chosen a fine fucking day to get a sore throat, thought Strike, as Decima tried and failed to extricate herself from the harness attaching the screaming baby to her. Finally, and mostly because he wanted the noise to stop, he went to her aid, successfully prising apart a clasp in which part of the poncho had become entangled.
‘Thank you – I think he’s hungry – I’m feeding him myself…’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Strike at once, more than happy to go and sit in his car if that was what it took not to have to watch.
‘No, I – if you’ll just turn your back—’
He willingly did as he was bidden, turning to stare through the window not covered with a bin bag.
The baby’s screams dwindled; Strike heard the scraping of chair legs and a small whimper of pain from Decima. He tried not to visualise what was happening behind him, and hoped to God she wasn’t one of those women who’d happily bare their breasts in front of strangers. At last, after what felt much longer than a couple of minutes, she said in a shaky voice,
‘It’s all right, you can turn round.’
Decima had pulled the poncho back over herself and the baby was once more hidden from view. As Strike sat down again, Decima said tremulously,
‘Please, you
While he’d thought she was living here alone, Strike had been agreeable to keeping her secrets, notwithstanding his suspicion that she wasn’t in perfect mental health. She’d given no indication of suicidality, and she had family; if she wanted to hide out at her miserable inherited house, it wasn’t any of his business. However, Strike didn’t want the burden of being the only person who knew this baby existed, outside the hospital.
‘Haven’t you got a—?’ He struggled to think of someone whose responsibility women who’d just given birth might be. ‘A health visitor, or—?’
‘I don’t need one. You
Strike, who was fairly sure she’d just told him her son’s name was ‘Lion’, which didn’t strengthen his reliance on her mental health, said,
