Unbeknownst to Robin, Strike, too, was having property-related problems. A good offer had been made on Ted and Joan’s house in St Mawes, but Greg thought they should hold out for more. What business it was of Greg’s, given that he didn’t own the place, was a question Strike hadn’t yet posed, in the interests of maintaining family harmony. He’d now endured two fraught phone calls on the subject with his sister. Both times, Strike had advocated accepting what was being offered. On the second occasion, Lucy had said distractedly,
‘Greg said you’d – oh, I just don’t know what to do.’
Strike didn’t know what Greg had said he’d do, but he could guess. His brother-in-law had either told Lucy the detective didn’t need the extra money Greg was hoping to squeeze out of the purchasers, or that Strike was too dim to realise there was extra money to be made. Strike knew Lucy’s inclination to hold out for more money wasn’t truly mercenary. In some confused way, she wanted to get the fullest possible value for what had meant so much to her, for so long.
It so happened that to Strike, too, that old house in St Mawes wasn’t just a prime bit of real estate, but he thought the offer that had been made was more than fair. Cheerless though it was to think of other people living in Ted and Joan’s house, was it really worth another few thousand pounds to scare off what sounded like a pleasant, local family, in favour of the second homers who might be able to afford more? And Strike was vaguely surprised to find in himself this very Cornish point of view, of which his oldest friend, Dave Polworth, would have heartily approved.
Meanwhile, Decima Mullins had requested a face-to-face update on the thirteenth of January, when, she said, she needed to come to London in any case. Strike, who suspected this trip might concern her failing restaurant, agreed to the meeting and, only too aware how little fresh information he had to give her, decided he was now justified in contacting Rupert’s ex-housemate, and the author of one of Fleetwood’s most pressing troubles, Zacharias Lorimer. He therefore emailed the young man for a second time, making vague intimations about a police inquiry, and strongly hinting that it was in Lorimer’s best interests to answer.
Shortly before one o’clock on a bitterly cold Friday, precisely one week before the proposed catch-up with Decima, Strike returned to Denmark Street to find Pat at her desk and the office otherwise deserted.
‘You’ve had a message from a man in Kenya, Zacharias Lorimer,’ she told Strike.
‘Yeah? Saying what?’
‘He can FaceTime you today at half past four. That’s half past one our time. His number’s by your keyboard.’
‘Great,’ said Strike, checking his watch and heading towards the kettle. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Pat gruffly. ‘And Dev was just in. He says Todd’s been on the Circle Line again and you’ll know what that means.’
‘Right,’ said Strike, ‘thanks.’
‘And I’ve found more Hussein Mohameds.’
‘How many are we up to now?’
‘A hundred and five.’
As Pat seemed in a reasonable mood, Strike indicated the fish tank.
‘Did you feel sorry for the black one?’ he asked, pointing at the faintly obscene fish with its knobbly head growth.
‘That’s an Oranda,’ she croaked, removing her e-cigarette to do so. ‘Fancy breed.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike.
‘I call it Cormoran. Got hair like yours.’
‘Hair?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Pat.
Having made them both coffee, Strike headed into the inner office, holding the sandwich he’d bought en route. He’d had barely two mouthfuls when his mobile buzzed and he saw a text from Robin.
Update on Gretchen Schiff. I might be getting over-excited, but I think there’s something there. I haven’t mentioned murder, just said we’re investigating a theft, a man with a false name and a woman who looked like Sofia. I expected her to
Strike’s mobile rang: it was Lucy. Strike refused the call and continued reading Robin’s text.
say Sofia would never have had anything to do with robbery, but she went quiet. She’s just got back to me asking for more details. I’ve said I’m not comfortable giving those by phone, but would rather say it in person. I’ve sent her proof that I genuinely am who I say I am.
His mobile rang for a second time: Midge. This time, he answered.
‘Hi, what’s up?’
‘
‘What about her?’