‘Before we go,’ said Strike, reaching into his coat pocket, ‘could I show you some pictures?’
He pulled out his phone and laid it on his knee as he sorted the pictures of Niall Semple, Tyler Powell and Rupert Fleetwood. While he was doing this, the screen of his mobile lit up and Robin saw a text from Kim, and the words, in capitals, ‘SO SEXY’. Next second, Strike’s large, hairy-backed hand had covered it, and he’d returned the phone to his inner pocket, leaving Robin to feel as though as ice cubes had just dropped into her stomach.
‘Could you tell me whether any of these men could have been Wright?’ Strike said, getting up to hand the pictures to Mandy. Daz, his half joint now lit, moved to the end of the bed and sat down beside Mandy to look.
‘Woss ’e wearin’?’ was Mandy’s only comment, as she surveyed Rupert Fleetwood in his waiter’s bow tie. ‘’Andsome,’ she said appreciatively, when she turned to Niall Semple’s picture. ‘Looks like Thor.’
‘Does ’e fuck,’ sneered Daz, scratching his small, flabby belly again.
‘’Is ears,’ sniggered Mandy, when she reached Tyler Powell. ‘But,’ she said, looking at Powell, ‘it could’ve been ’im, y’know. Wiv ’is ears covered, wiv ’is ’air.’
‘Really?’ said Strike.
‘Nah,’ said Daz.
‘Could of been,’ said Mandy.
‘How sure are you?’ said Strike. ‘Out of ten?’
Mandy looked as alarmed as she’d been when asked to agree to a firm date, earlier.
‘Five,’ she said. ‘But ’e was a bit like ’im, too,’ said Mandy, now holding up Rupert Fleetwood’s picture, with an air of wanting to cover all her bases.
‘Right,’ said Strike, taking the photos back again. ‘Well, you’ve been very helpful, thanks,’ he said. ‘For the record, what did you think, when you saw Knowles’ picture?’
‘We never fort it was ’im,’ said Mandy.
‘
‘I never,’ said Mandy crossly.
‘Is there anything else you can remember about Wright?’ asked Robin, but Mandy and Daz had given all they had to give. However, even Daz seemed slightly reluctant to let the detectives go: their visit had been an unusual, mildly exciting, interlude.
Robin wanted to get out into clean air again, but she felt a pang of guilt at leaving the family where they were, especially as Mandy began talking about housing when it became clear that Strike and Robin were really leaving.
‘We’ve bin on the waiting list for a council ’ouse for a year,’ she said, walking them to the front door.
‘That’s awful,’ said Robin.
Strike reached into his pocket again and took out a further twenty pounds.
‘For your trouble,’ he said. ‘Buy Clint something for Christmas.’
‘Oh, cheers!’ said Mandy, now far happier to see them depart.
The door closed behind Strike and Robin as they walked down the steps.
‘That was nice,’ said Robin.
‘Just hope it doesn’t all go on weed. Fancy a debrief? There’s a pub up—’
‘Could we do it tomorrow?’ said Robin. ‘I’ve actually got to get going just now.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
‘I’ve got a load of paperwork to file at the office, and I don’t want to put it off, because I’m going to view a house later,’ said Robin.
‘Right,’ said Strike again.
Strike walked slowly back towards his BMW, pulling his mobile out of his pocket as he went. Another text from Kim had followed the one he’d glimpsed inside.
Omg, sorry, that wasn’t meant for you!
He scrolled up to the previous text.
He looked SO SEXY in his dinner jacket!
‘So,’ said Murphy, setting a glass of tonic water and a packet of crisps in front of Robin six hours later, ‘that was a waste of bloody time.’
‘I know,’ said Robin.
They were sitting in the corner of a loud and noisy pub situated close to the small terraced house in Wanstead they’d just viewed. Having spent an hour in Mandy and Daz’s bedsit that morning Robin would have expected anything to look good by comparison, but she doubted the ‘three bedrooms, separate lounge and kitchen’ had been decorated or restored in thirty years. Robin and Murphy had trailed around the place in the wake of a middle-aged couple who appeared to be looking at the house as an investment opportunity: renovate, sell and reap a fat profit.
Murphy had only ten minutes to spare before he needed to set off back to work. He hadn’t told Robin exactly what was happening on his gang shooting case, or what he’d be doing this evening, had arrived late for the house viewing and been almost monosyllabic throughout. He kept checking his phone.
‘Are you OK?’ Robin asked tentatively.
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.
